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THE   PEOPLE  OF 
THE    RUINS 

A  STORY  OF  THE   ENGLISH 
REVOLUTION  AND  AFTER 

BY 
EDWARD  SHANKS 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  ig2o,  by 
Edward  Shanks 


All  Rights  Reserved 


T>.f' 


TO 

ELSIE  AND  J.  MURRAY  ALLISON 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I    Trouble -      i 

II    The  Dead  Rat .     „  19 

III  A  Vv'oRLD  Grown  Strange  .     „     .     .     .  35 

IV  Discoveries 61 

V    The  Speaker 88 

VI    The  Guns e     ....  115 

VII  The  Lady  Eva      .     .     .     j'f .     .     .     .  133 

VIII  Declaration  of  War     .     .     .     .     .     .  158 

IX    Marching  Out      .     .     „ 176 

X  The  Battle      .........  igo 

XI    Triumph 209 

XII    New  Clouds 226 

XIII  The  Fields  of  Windsor 249 

XIV  Chaos 267 

XV    Flight 282 

XVI    The  Roman  Road 301 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE 
RUINS 


CHAPTER  I 

TROUBLE 


MR.  JEREMY  TUFT  became  aware  with  a  slight 
shock  that  he  was  lying  in  bed  wide  awake.  He 
raised  his  head  a  little,  stared  around  him,  found 
something  vaguely  unfamiliar,  and  tried  to  go  to  sleep 
again.  But  sleep  would  not  come.  Though  he  felt 
dull  and  stupid,  he  was  yet  invincibly  awake.  His 
eyes  opened  again  of  themselves,  and  he  stared  round 
him  once  more.  It  was  the  subdued  light,  filtered 
through  the  curtains,  that  was  strange;  and  as  intelli- 
gence flowed  back  into  his  empty  mind,  he  realized 
that  this  was  because  it  was  much  stronger  than  it 
should  have  been  at  any  time  before  eight  o'clock. 
Thence  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  very  likely  later 
than  eight  o'clock  was  an  easy  step  for  his  reviving 
faculties.  Energy  followed  the  returning  intelligence, 
and  he  sat  up  suddenly,  his  head  throbbing  as  he  did 
so,  and  took  his  watch  from  the  table  beside  him.  It 
was,  in  fact,  a  quarter  to  ten. 


2  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

Arising  out  of  this  discovery  a  stream  of  possibil- 
ities troubled  the  still  somewhat  confused  processes 
of  his  mind.  Either  Mrs.  Watkins  for  some  unac- 
countable reason  had  failed  to  arrive,  or  else,  contrary 
to  his  emphatic  and  often  repeated  instructions,  she 
had  been  perfunctory  in  knocking  at  his  door  and  had 
not  stayed  for  an  answer.  In  either  case  it  was  an- 
noying; but  Mrs.  Watkins'  arrival  at  half-past  seven 
was  so  fixed  a  point  in  the  day,  she  was  so  regular, 
so  trustworthy,  and,  moreover,  life  without  her  min- 
istrations was  so  unthinkable  that  the  first  possibility 
seemed  much  the  less  possible  of  the  two.  When 
Jeremy  had  thus  exhausted  the  field  of  speculation  he 
rose  and  went  out  of  his  room  to  speak  sharply  to 
Mrs.  Watkins.  His  intention  of  severity  was  a  little 
belied  by  the  genial  grotesqueness  of  his  short  and 
rather  broad  figure  in  dressing-gown  and  pyjamas; 
but  he  hoped  that  he  looked  a  disciplinarian. 

Mrs.  Watkins,  however,  was  not  there.  The  flat 
was  silent  and  completely  empty.  The  blinds  were 
drawn  over  the  sitting-room  windows,  and  stirred 
faintly  as  he  opened  the  door.  He  passed  into  the 
kitchen,  but  not  hopefully,  for  as  a  rule  his  ear  told 
him  without  mistake  when  the  charwoman  was  to  be 
found  there.  As  he  had  expected,  she  was  not  there, 
nor  yet  in  the  bathroom.  There  was  a  quiet  uncanny 
silence  everywhere,  so  strange  and  yet  at  the  same 
time  so  reminiscent  of  something  that  eluded  his  mem- 
ory, that  Jeremy  paused  a  moment,  head  lifted  in  air, 
trying  to  analyze  its  effect  on  him.  He  ascribed  it  at 
last  to  the  obvious  cause  of  Mrs.  Watkins*  absence 
at  this  unusually  late  hour;  and  he  went  further  into 
the  bathroom,  whence  he  could  see,  with  a  little 
craning  of  the  neck,  the  clock  on  St.  Andrew's  Church 


TROUBLE  3 

in  Holborn.  This  last  testimony  confirmed  that  of  his 
watch.  He  returned  to  the  sitting-room,  struggling 
half-consciously  in  his  mind  with  a  quite  irrational 
feeling,  for  which  he  could  not  account,  that  it  was  a 
Sunday.  He  knew  very  well  that  it  was  a  Tuesday — 
Tuesday,  the  i8th  of  April,  in  the  year  1924. 

When  he  came  into  the  sitting-room  he  drew  back 
the  blinds  and  let  in  the  full  morning  light,  and  by 
its  aid  he  surveyed  unfavorably  his  overcoat  lying 
where  he  had  thrown  it  the  night  before,  coming  in 
late  from  a  party.  He  looked  also  with  some  disgust 
at  the  glass  from  which  he  had  drunk  a  last  unneces- 
sary whisky  and  soda  previous  to  going  to  bed.  Then 
he  paddled  back  wearily  with  bare  feet  to  the  narrow 
kitchen  (a  cupboard  containing  a  gas-stove  and  a 
smaller  cupboard),  set  a  kettle  on  to  boil,  and  began 
the  always  laborious  process  of  bathing,  shaving,  and 
dressing.  At  the  end  he  shirked  making  tea,  or  boiling 
an  egg,  and  he  sat  down  discontentedly  to  another 
whisky,  in  the  same  glass,  and  a  piece  of  stale  bread. 

As  he  consumed  this  unsuitable  meal  he  remembered 
his  appointment  for  one  o'clock  that  day,  and  hoped 
with  a  sudden  devoutness  that  the  'buses  would  be  run- 
ning after  all.  It  was  no  joke  to  go  from  Holbom 
to  Whitechapel  High  Street  on  foot.  But  a  young 
and  rather  aggressive  Socialist  whom  he  had  unwil- 
lingly met  at  that  party  had  predicted  with  confidence 
a  strike  of  'busmen  some  time  during  the  evening. 
Certainly  Jeremy  had  had  to  walk  all  the  way  home 
from  Chelsea,  a  thing  he  much  disliked,  but  then  per- 
haps by  that  time  the  'buses  had  stopped  running  in 
the  ordinary  course.  .  .  .  They  did  stop  running, 
those  Chelsea  'buses — a  horrid  place — at  an  ungodly 
early  hour,  he  was  not  quite  sure  what.  But  then  he  waa 


4  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

not  quite  sure  at  what  time  he  had  started  home  .  .  . 
he  was  not  really  sure  of  anything  that  had  happened 
towards  the  end  of  the  party.  He  remembered  long, 
devastating  arguments  in  the  earlier  part  about 
Anarchism,  Socialism,  Syndicalism,  Bolshevism,  and 
some  other  doctrines,  the  names  of  which  were  formed 
on  the  same  analogy,  but  which  were  too  novel  to  him 
to  be  readily  apprehended. 

These  discussions  were  mingled  with  more  practical 
but  equally  windy  disputes  on  the  questions  whether 
the  railwaymen  would  come  out,  whether  the  miners 
were  bluiBng,  what  Bob  Hart  was  going  to  do,  and 
much  more  besides  on  the  same  level  of  interest. 
There  had  been  also  a  youth  with  great  superiority  of 
manner,  who  seemed  as  tedious  and  irritating  to  the 
politicians  as  they  were  to  Jeremy — a  sort  of  super- 
bore  who  stated  at  intervals  that  the  General  Strike 
was  a  myth,  but  praised  all  and  sundry  for  talking 
about  it  and  threatening  it.  It  had  been — hadn't  it? — 
a  studio  party.  At  least,  Jeremy  had  gone  to  it  on 
that  understanding;  but  the  political  push  had  rushed 
it  somehow,  and  had  bored  everybody  else  to  tears. 
Jeremy,  who  did  not  very  much  relish  political  argu- 
ment, had  applied  himself  to  a  kind  of  pleasure  he 
could  better  understand.  He  now  remembered  little 
enough  of  those  long,  muddling  disputations,  punctu- 
ated by  visits  to  the  sideboard,  but  he  knew  that  his 
head  ached  terribly.  Aspirin  tablets  washed  down 
with  whisky  would  probably  not  be  much  good,  but 
they  would  be  better  than  nothing.     He  took  some. 

In  the  midst  of  these  difficulties  and  discomforts  he 
began  obscurely  to  miss  something;  and  at  last  it 
flashed  on  him  that  he  had  no  morning  paper — because 
there  had  been  no  Mrs.  Watkins  to  bring  it  in  with 


TROUBLE  5 

her  and  put  it  on  his  table.  He  realized  at  the  same 
time  that  the  morning  paper  would  tell  him  whether 
he  had  to  walk  to  Whitechapel  High  Street,  and  that 
it  was  worth  a  journey  to  the  street  door  from  his 
flat  at  the  top  of  the  building  to  know  the  worst.  But 
when  he  had  made  the  journey  there  was  no  paper. 
While  he  was  reflecting  on  this  disagreeable  fact  an 
envelope  in  the  letter  box  caught  his  eye.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  him  in  a  somewhat  illiterate  script,  and  ap- 
peared to  have  been  delivered  by  hand,  since  it  bore 
no  stamp.  When  he  opened  it  he  found  the  following 
communication : 

"Dere  Sir, — Ime  sorry  to  tell  you  I  shal  not  be  able 
to  come  in  to-morro  as  we  woilcing  womin  have  gone 
on  stricke  in  simpathy  with  husbands  and  other  work- 
ing men  the  buses  are  al  out  and  the  railways  and  so 
are  we  dere  Mr.  Tuft  I  dont  know  Ime  sure  how  you 
will  get  on  without  me  but  do  youre  best  and  dont 
forget  today  is  the  day  for  your  clean  underdose  they 
are  in  the  chest  of  draws  there  is  a  tin  of  sardins  in 
the  larder  so  no  more  at  present  from  your  truely, 

''Mrs.  Watkins.'' 

''Well,  I'm  damned  .  .  ."  said  Mr.  Tuft,  staring 
at  this  touching  epistle;  and  for  a  moment  he  was 
filled  with  annoyance  by  the  recollection  that  he  had 
not  put  on  his  clean  underclothes.  Presently,  how- 
ever, he  trailed  upstairs  again ;  and  when  he  had  found 
the  sardines  in  the  larder  the  effort  thus  endured 
strengthened  him  for  the  task  of  making  tea.  Even- 
tually he  got  ready  a  quite  satisfactory  breakfast,  in 
the  course  of  which  his  mind  cleared  to  an  exhausted 
and  painful  lucidity. 


6  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

*'That's  what  it  is!"  he  cried  at  last,  thumping  the 
table;  and  in  his  excitement,  he  let  the  last  half  sardine 
slide  off  his  fork  and  on  to  the  floor.  He  groped  after 
it,  wincing  and  starting  up  when  his  head  throbbed 
too  badly,  retrieved  the  rather  dusty  fish,  wiped  it 
carefully  with  his  napkin,  and  slowly  ate  it.  The 
strange  silence  and  the  odd  feeling  that  this  was  Sun- 
day morning  were  at  last  explained.  The  printing 
works  across  the  narrow  street  were  empty,  and 
through  the  grimy  windows  Jeremy  could  see  the>  great 
machines  standing  idle.  Below  there  were  no  carts, 
where  usually  they  banged  and  clattered  through  the 
whole  working  day.  The  printers  were  out  on  strike. 
Very  possibly  everybody  had  struck;  for  surely  noth- 
ing short  of  a  national  upheaval  could  have  deterred 
the  industrious  Mrs.  Watkins  from  her  work. 

He  went  to  his  window  and  threw  it  wide  open  to 
make  a  nearer  inspection.  The  traffic  which  usually 
thronged  the  noisy  little  street,  the  carts  and  cars  which 
stood  outside  the  newspaper  offices  and  printing  works, 
were  absent.  A  few  of  the  tenement-dwellers  lounged 
at  their  doors  in  such  groups  as  were  commonly  seen 
only  at  night  or  on  Saturday  afternoons  or  Sundays. 
Jeremy  felt  a  faint  thrill  go  through  him.  This  looked 
like  being  exciting.  He  had  seen  upheavals  before, 
but  never,  even  in  the  worst  of  them,  had  he  seen  this 
busy  district  in  a  state  of  idleness  so  Sabbatical.  There 
had  been  'bus  strikes  and  tube  strikes  in  191 8  and 
191 9,  and  since.  The  railwaymen  and  the  miners  had 
come  out  together  for  two  days  late  in  1920,  and  had 
made  a  paralyzing  impression.  But  throughout  these 
affairs  somehow  printing  had  gone  on,  and  newspapers 
had  continued  to  be  published,  getting  at  each  crisis, 
according  to  the  temperaments  of  their  proprietors, 


TROUBLE  7 

politer  or  more  abusive  towards  the  strikers.  At  the 
end  of  the  previous  year,  1923,  when  a  very  serious 
situation  had  arisen,  and  a  collapse  had  been  narrowly 
averted,  there  had  been  a  distinct  and  arresting  note 
of  helpless  panic  in  both  politeness  and  abuse.  Dur- 
ing the  last  few  days,  while  the  present  trouble  was 
brewing,  neither  had  much  appeared  in  the  papers, 
but  only  an  exhibition  of  dithering  fright. 

But  Jeremy  had  grown  on  the  whole  accustomed  to 
it.  He  had  ceased  to  believe  in  the  coming  of  what 
some  of  the  horrible  people  he  had  met  at  that  studio 
referred  to  caressingly  as  the  "Big  Show."  The  Gov- 
ernment would  always  arrange  things  somehow.  The 
wages  of  lecturers  and  investigators  in  physics  (of 
whom  he  was  one)  never  went  up,  because  they  never 
went  on  strike,  and  because  it  was  unlikely  that  any 
one  would  care  if  they  did.  He  had  not  been  able  to 
believe  that  a  time  would  ever  come  when  there  would 
be  no  Government,  no  Paymaster-General,  no  Min- 
istry of  Pensions,  to  pay  him  his  partial  disability  pen- 
sion. But  this  morning  unexpected  events  seemed 
much  more  probable.  There  was  not  much  of  the 
world  to  be  perceived  from  his  window  looking  down 
the  street,  but  what  there  was  smelt  somehow  remark- 
ably like  real  trouble. 


Jeremy  Tuft  was  not  unused  to  "trouble"  of  one 
sort  and  another.  When  the  Great  War  began  in 
1914  he  was  a  lecturer  on  physical  science  in  one  of 
the  modern  universities  of  Northern  England.  He 
had  published  a  series  of  papers  on  the  Viscosity  of 
Liquids,  which  had  gained  him  a  European  reputa- 
tion— that  is  to  say,  it  had  been  quoted  with  approval 


8  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

by  two  Germans  and  a  Pole,  while  the  conclusions 
had  been  appropriated  without  acknowledgment  by  a 
Norwegian — and  he  received  a  stipend  of  £300  per 
annum,  to  which  he  added  a  little  by  private  coaching 
in  his  spare  time.  With  what  was  left  of  his  spare 
time  he  tried  to  make  the  liquids  move  faster  or  slower 
or  in  some  other  direction — in  view  of  his  ultimate 
destiny  it  matters  very  little  which — and  at  all  events 
to  gather  such  evidence  as  would  blow  the  Norwegian, 
for  whom  he  had  conceived  an  unreasonable  hatred, 
quite  out  of  the  water. 

War  called  him  from  these  pursuits.  He  did  not 
stand  upon  his  scientific  status  or  attainments;  but  con- 
cluding that  the  country  wanted  MEN  to  set  an  ex- 
ample, he  hastened  to  set  an  example  by  applying  for 
a  commission  in  the  artillery,  which,  after  some  diffi- 
culty, he  obtained.  When  the  first  excitement  and 
muddle  had  been  cleared  away,  so  he  supposed,  no 
doubt  the  specialists  would  be  sorted  out  and  set  to 
do  the  jobs  for  which  they  were  best  fitted.  He  was 
a  naturally  riodest  man;  but  he  could  think  of  two 
or  three  jobs  for  which  he  was  very  well  fitted  indeed. 

He  passed  through  Woolwich  in  a  breathless  rush, 
and  learnt  to  ride  even  more  breathlessly.  As  the 
day  for  departure  overseas  drew  near  he  congratulated 
himself  a  little  that  the  inevitable  sorting-out  seemed 
to  be  postponed.  He  would  get  a  few  weeks  more 
of  this  invaluable  experience  in  a  sphere  which  was 
completely  unfamiliar  to  him ;  he  would  perhaps  even 
see  some  of  the  fighting  which  he  had  never  really 
expected.  When,  five  days  after  his  arrival  in  the 
Salient  with  the  battery  of  sixty-pounders  to  which 
he  was  attached,  one  of  the  guns  blew  up  with  a  pre- 
mature explosion  and  drenched  him  in  blood  not  his 


TROUBLE  9 

own,  he  felt  that  his  experience  was  reasonably  com- 
plete, and  began  to  look  forward  to  the  still  deferred 
sorting-out.  Unfortunately,  it  continued  to  be  de- 
ferred; but  after  a  little  while  Jeremy  settled  down 
with  the  battery,  and  rose  in  it  to  the  rank  of  captain. 

His  companions  described  him  as  the  most  con- 
sistent and  richly  eloquent  grumbler  on  the  British 
front ;  and  he  filled  in  his  spare  time  by  poking  round 
little  shops  in  Bethune  and  such  towns,  and  picking  up 
old,  unconsidered  engravings  and  some  rather  good 
lace.  In  the  early  part  of  1918,  his  horse,  in  a  set-to 
with  a  traction-engine,  performed  the  operation  of 
sorting-out  which  the  authorities  had  so  long  neglected ; 
and  Jeremy,  when  his  dislocated  knee  was  somewhat 
recovered,  parted  forever  from  the  intelligent  animal, 
and  went  to  use  his  special  attainments  as  a  bottle- 
washer  in  the  office  of  Divisional  Headquarters.  The 
armistice  came;  and  he  was  released  from  the  army 
after  difficulties  much  exceeding  those  which  he  had 
encountered  in  entering  it. 

In  April,  1922,  he  was  again  a  lecturer  in  physics, 
this  time  at  a  newly-instituted  college  in  London,  re- 
ceiving a  stipend  of  £350  per  annum,  to  which  he  was 
luckily  able  to  add  a  partial  disability  pension  of  £20. 
In  his  spare  moments  he  pursued  the  Viscosity  of 
Liquids  with  a  movement  less  lively  than  their  own; 
but  he  had  forgotten  the  Norwegian's  name.  He 
lived  alone,  not  too  uncomfortably,  in  his  little  flat 
in  Holborn,  a  short  distance  from  the  building  where 
it  was  his  duty  to  explain  to  young  men  who  some- 
times, and  young  women  who  rarely,  understood 
him,  the  difference  between  mass  and  weight,  and 
other  such  interesting  points.  He  was  tended  daily  by 
the  careful  Mrs.  Watkins,  and  he  had  a  number  of 


.10        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

friends,  mostly  artists,  whose  tendency  to  live  in  Chel- 
sea or  in  Camden  Town  he  heartily  deplored. 

On  this  morning  of  April,  1924,  the  first  day  of  the 
Great  Strike  or  the  Big  Show,  Jeremy  set  out  at  a  few 
moments  after  eleven  to  keep  his  appointment  with  a 
friend  who  lived  in  a  place  no  less  inconvenient  than 
the  Whitechapel  High  Street.  The  streets  were,  as 
they  had  seemed  from  his  windows,  even  emptier  and 
quieter  than  on  a  Sunday,  and  most  of  the  shops  were 
closed.  But  there  was,  on  the  whole,  a  feeling  of  elec- 
tricity in  the  air  that  Jeremy  had  never  associated  with 
that  day.  It  was  when  he  came  into  Fetter  Lane 
and  saw  a  patrol  of  troops  lying  on  the  grass  outside 
the  Record  Office  that  he  first  found  something  con- 
crete to  justify  this  feeling. 

"There  is  going  to  be  trouble,  then,"  he  muttered 
to  himself,  admitting  it  with  reluctance,  as  he  walked 
on  steadily  into  Fleet  Street;  and  there  his  apprehen- 
sions were  again  confirmed.  A  string  of  lorries  came 
rapidly  down  the  empty  roadway,  past  him  from  the 
West,  and  they  were  crowded  with  troops.  Guards, 
he  thought — carrying  machine-guns  in  the  first  lorry. 

Jeremy  paused  for  a  moment,  staring  after  them, 
and  then  as  he  turned  to  go  on  he  saw  a  small  special 
constable  standing  as  inconspicuously  as  possible  in 
the  door  of  a  shop,  swinging  nervously  the  truncheon 
at  his  wrist.  His  uniform  looked  a  little  dusty  and 
unkept,  and  there  was  an  obvious  moth-hole  on  one 
side  of  the  cap.  His  whole  appearance  was  that  of  a 
man  desperately  imploring  Providence  not  to  let  any- 
thing happen. 

"That  man's  face  is  simply  asking  for  a  riot," 
Jeremy  grunted  to  himself;  and  he  said  aloud,  "Per- 
haps you  can  tell  me  what  it's  all  about?" 


TROUBLE  11 

The  special  constable  started  suspiciously.  But  see- 
ing that  Jeremy  was  comparatively  well-dressed,  and 
seemed  to  be  a  member  of  what  in  those  days  was 
beginning  to  be  known  as  the  P.B.M.C.*  he  was  reas- 
sured. Jeremy's  air  of  clumsy  geniality  and  self-con- 
fidence was,  moreover,  far  removed  from  the  sinister 
aspect  of  the  traditional  Bolshevist.  "I  don't  know 
really,"  he  said  in  a  complaining  voice,  "it's  so  difficult 
to  find  out  with  no  newspapers  or  anything.  All  I  do 
know  for  certain  is  that  we  were  called  out  last  night, 
and  some  say  one  thing  and  some  another." 

"How  long  have  you  been  on  duty?"  Jeremy  asked. 

"Only  an  hour,"  the  special  constable  replied.  "I 
slept  at  the  station  all  night  on  the  floor." 

"Like  old  times  in  billets,  what?"  Jeremy  remarked 
pleasantly,  observing  a  silver  badge  on  the  man's  right 
lapel. 

"No.  .  .  .  Oh,  no.  ...  I  wasn't  ever  in  the 
army  really.  They  invalided  me  out  after  three  days. 
I'm  not  strong,  you  know — I'm  not  fit  for  this  sort 
of  thing.  And  we  didn't  get  any  proper  sleep." 

"Why  not?" 

"We  were  afraid  we  might  be  attacked,"  said  the 
special  constable  darkly.  "Nearly  all  the  police  are 
out.  There  was  only  an  inspector  and  a  sergeant  at 
the  station  besides  us." 

"Well,  who  else  is  out?"  Jeremy  asked. 

"The  railwaymen  came  out  yesterday,  and  the  'bus- 
men last  night.  All  the  miners  are  out  now.  And  the 
printers,  too.  They  say  the  electrical  men  are  out,  too, 
but  I  don't  know  about  that." 

*A  phrase  which  gained  currency  in  1919  or  earlier,  and 
which  was  formed  on  the  analogy  of  P.B.I.,  used,  to  describe 
themselves,  by  the  infantry  in  the  Great  War. 


12         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

"Looks  like  almighty  smash,  don't  it?"  Jeremy  com- 
mented.    "Where  are  all  those  troops  going?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  special  constable.  "No- 
body really  knows  anything   for  certain." 

"Cheerful  business,"  Jeremy  grumbled,  mostly  to 
himself.  "And  how  the  devil  am  I  going  to  get  to 
Whitechapel  High  Street,  I  wonder?" 

"To  Whitechapel  High  Street?"  the  special  constable 
cried.  "Down  in  the  East  End?  Oh,  don't  go  down 
there!     It'll  be  frightfully  dangerous  there!" 

"That  be  damned,"  said  Jeremy.  "I  can't  say  you 
^look  as  though  you  were  feeling  particularly  safe 
yourself,  do  you?"  And  with  a  wave  of  his  hand 
he  passed  down  Fleet  Street  in  an  easterly  direction. 

It  was  only  a  few  hundred  yards  farther  on  that  he 
received  his  first  personal  shock  of  the  day.  As  he 
came  to  Ludgate  Circus  he  heard  an  empty  lorry, 
driven  at  a  furious  rate,  bumping  and  clanging  down 
the  street  behind  him.  At  the  same  time  a  large  gray 
staff  car,  packed  with  red-tabbed  officers,  shot  into  the 
Circus  out  of  Farrington  Street,  making  for  Black- 
friars  Bridge.  His  heart  was  for  a  moment  in  his 
mouth,  but  the  driver  of  the  lorry  pulled  up  abruptly 
and  let  the  car  go  by,  stopping  his  own  engine  as  he 
did  so.  Jeremy  saw  him  descend,  swearing  softly, 
to  crank  up  again;  and  the  sight  of  the  empty  vehicle 
revived  in  him  glad  memories  of  the  French  and 
Flemish  roads.  He  therefore  stepped  into  the  street, 
and  said  with  a  confidence  that  returned  to  him  nat- 
urally from  earlier  years: 

"Look  here,  my  lad,  if  you're  going  east,  you  might 
give  me  a  bit  of  a  lift." 

The  soldier  had  got  his  engine  going  again,  and  rose 


TROUBLE  13 

from  the  starting  handle  with  a  flushed  and  frowning 

face. 

"  'Oo  are  you  talkin'  to?"  he  asked  sullenly.  "  Oo 
the  'ell  do  you  think  this  lorry  belongs  to,  eh  ?  Think 
it  belongs  to  yonf"  And  as  Jeremy  was  too  taken 
aback  to  answer,  he  continued  :  "This  lorry  belongs  to 
the  Workmen's  and  Soldiers'  Council  of  Southwark, 
that's  '00  it  belongs  to."  He  climbed  slowly  back  into 
his  seat,  and  as  he  slipped  the  clutch  in  leant  outwards 
to  Jeremy  and  exclaimed  in  a  particularly  emphatic 
and  vicious  tone,  "Dirty  boorjwar!"  The  machine 
leapt  forward,  swept  round  the  Circus,  and  disap- 
peared over  the  bridge. 

Jeremy,  a  little  perturbed  by  this  incident,  pursued 
his  journey,  unconsciously  grasping  his  heavy  cane 
somewhat  tighter,  and  glancing  almost  nervously  down 
every  side  street  or  alley  he  passed,  hardly  knowing 
for  what  he  looked.  His  notion  of  the  way  by  foot 
to  Whitechapel  High  Street  was  not  very  clear,  but 
he  knew  more  or  less  the  way  to  Liverpool  Street, 
and  he  supposed  that  by  going  thither  he  would  be 
following  the  proper  line.  He  therefore  trudged  up 
Ludgate  Hill  and  along  Cheapside,  cursing  the  Revo- 
lution and  all  extremists  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 
The  lorry  driver's  parting  shot  still  rankled  in  his 
mind.  He  felt  that  it  was  extremely  unjust  to  accuse 
him  of  being  a  member  of  the  bourgeoisie,  and  he  was 
quite  ready  to  exchange  all  his  vested  interests  in  any- 
thing whatever  against  a  seat  in  a  'bus. 

Close  to  Liverpool  Street  Station  he  came  out  of 
deserted  and  silent  streets,  whose  silence  and  empti- 
ness had  begun  to  have  an  effect  on  his  nerves,  into 
a  scene  of  activity  and  animation.  A  string  of  five 
lorries,  driven  by  soldiers,  but  loaded  with  something 


14        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

hidden  under  tarpaulins  instead  of  troops,  was  drawn 
up  by  the  curb,  while  a  large  and  growing  crowd 
blocked  its  further  progress.  The  crowd  was  held  to- 
gether apparently  by  an  orator  mounted  on  a  broken 
chair,  who  was  lashing  himself  into  a  fury  which  he 
found  difficult  to  communicate  to  his  audience.  Jer- 
emy pushed  forward  as  unobtrusively  as  he  could,  but 
eventually  found  himself  stayed,  close  to  the  foremost 
lorry,  on  the  skirts  of  the  crowd.  The  orator,  not 
far  off,  was  working  himself  into  ever  wilder  and 
wilder  passions. 

"The  hour  has  come,"  he  was  saying.  "All  over 
the  country  our  brothers  have  risen " 

"And  I  and  my  brothers,"  Jeremy  murmured  to 
himself,  "are  going  to  get  the  dirty  end  of  the  stick.'* 

But  as  he  looked  about  him  and  examined  the  crowd 
in  which  he  was  involved,  he  found  some  difficulty  in 
connecting  it  with  the  fiery  phrases  of  the  speaker  or 
with  the  impvending  Revolution  which,  until  this 
moment,  he  had  really  been  beginning  to  dread.  Now 
a  sudden  wave  of  relief  passed  over  his  mind.  These 
honest,  blunt,  good-natured  people  had  expressed  the 
subtle  influence  of  the  day,  which  he  himself  had  felt, 
by  putting  on  their  Sunday  clothes.  They  were  not 
meditating  bloodshed  or  the  overthrow  of  the  State. 
But  for  a  certain  seriousness  and  determination  in 
their  faces  and  voices  one  might  have  thought  that 
they  were  making  holiday  in  an  unpremeditated  and 
rather  eccentric  manner.  Their  seriousness  was  not 
that  of  men  forming  desperate  resolves.  It  was  that 
of  men  who,  having  entered  into  an  argument,  intend 
to  argue  it  out.  They  believed  in  argument,  in  the 
power  of  reason,  and  the  voting  force  of  majorities. 
They  applauded  the  speaker,  but  not  when  he  became 


TROUBLE  15 

blood-thirsty;  and  time  and  time  again  he  lost  touch 
with  them  in  his  violence.  At  the  most  frenzied  point 
of  the  oration  a  thick-set  man,  with  a  startling  orange 
handkerchief  round  his  neck,  turned  to  Jeremy  and 
said  disgustedly : 

"Listen  to  'im  jowin'!  Sheeny,  that's  what  he  is, 
no  more  than  a  —  Sheeny."  Jeremy  was  neither  a 
politician  nor  a  sociologist.  He  did  not  weigh  a  pre- 
vious diagnosis  against  this  fresh  evidence  and  come 
to  a  more  cheerful  conclusion;  but  he  breathed  rather 
more  freely  and  relaxed  his  grip  on  his  cane.  He  was 
not  disturbed  by  the  confused  and  various  clamor 
;which  came  from  the  crowd  and  in  which  there  was  a 
good  admixture  of  laughter. 

Just  at  this  moment  he  saw  on  the  lorry  by  which 
he  had  halted  a  face  that  was  familiar  to  him.  He 
looked  again  more  closely,  and  recognized  Scott — 
Scott  who  had  been  in  the  Divisional  Office,  Scott  who 
had  panicked  so  wildly  in  the  191 8  retreat,  though 
God  knew  he  had  taken  a  long  enough  start,  Scott 
who  had  nearly  landed  him  in  a  row  over  that  girl  in 
the  estaminet  at  Bailleul,  just  after  the  armistice.  And 
Scott,  who  never  knew  that  he  was  disliked — a  charac- 
teristic of  his  kind ! — was  eagerly  beckoning  to  him. 

He  slid  quietly  through  the  fringe  of  the  crowd  and 
stood  by  the  driving-seat  of  the  lorry.  Scott  leant 
down  and  shook  him  by  the  hand  warmly,  speaking  in 
a  whisper: 

"Tuft,  old  man,"  he  said  effusively,  "I  often  won- 
dered what  had  become  of  you.  What  a  piece  of  luck 
meeting  you  here!" 

"1  could  think  of  better  places  to  meet  in,"  Jeremy 
answered  drily.  He  was  determined  not  to  encourage 
Scott ;  he  knew  very  well  that  something  damned  awk- 


i6        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

ward  would  most  likely  come  of  it.  "This  looks  to  me 
Jike  a  hold-up.     What  have  you  got  in  the  lorries?" 

"Sh!"  Scott  murmured  with  a  scared  look.  "It's 
bombs  for  the  troops  at  Liverpool  Street,  but  it'd  be  all 
up  with  us  if  the  crowd  knew  that.  No — why  I  said 
it  was  lucky  was  because  I  thought  you  might  help 
me  to  get  through." 

"I?     How  could  I?"  Jeremy  asked  defensively. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  ...  I  thought  you  might 
have  some  influence  with  them,  persuade  them  that 
there's  nothing  particular  in  the  lorries,  or  .    .    ." 

Jeremy  favored  him  with  a  stare  of  bewildered  dis- 
like. "Why  on  earth  should  I  have  any  influence  with 
them?"  he  enquired. 

"Don't  be  sick  with  me,  old  man.  ...  I  only 
thought  you  used  to  have  some  damned  queer  opin- 
ions, you  know;  used  to  be  a  sort  of  Bolshevist  your- 
self. .  .  .  I  thought  you  might  know  how  to  speak 
to  them."  Scott,  of  course,  always  had  thought  that 
any  man  whose  opinions  he  could  not  understand  was 
a  sort  of  Bolshevist.  Jeremy  shirked  the  task  of  ex- 
planation and  contented  himself  with  calling  his  old 
comrade-in-arms  an  ass. 

"And,  anyway,"  he  went  on,  "I'll  tell  you  one  thing. 
There  isn't  likely  to  be  any  revolution  hereabouts, 
unless  you  make  it  yourself.  What  are  you  stopping 
for?    Did  they  make  j^ou  stop?" 

"Not  exactly  .  .  .  don't  you  see,  the  General  said.  .  .  ." 

Jeremy  heaved  a  groan.  He  had  heard  that  phrase 
on  Scott's  lips  before,  and  it  was  generally  a  sign  that 
the  nadir  of  his  incapacity  had  been  reached.  Heaven 
help  the  Social  Order  if  it  depended  on  Scott's  fidelity 
to  what  the  General  had  said !  But  the  voice  above 
him  maundered  on,   betraying  helplessness  in  every 


TROUBLE  17 

syllable.  The  General  had  said  that  the  bombs  were 
at  all  costs  to  reach  the  troops  at  Liverpool  Street. 
He  had  also  said  that  on  no  account  must  the  nature 
of  the  convoy  be  betrayed;  and  on  no  account  must 
Scott  risk  any  encounter  with  a  mob.  And  the  mob 
had  not  really  stopped  the  convoy.  They  had  just 
shown  no  alacrity  in  making  room  for  it,  and  Scott 
had  thought  that  by  pushing  on  he  would  perhaps  be 
risking  an  encounter.  Now,  however,  he  thought  that 
by  remaining  where  he  was  might  be  exciting  curiosity. 
Jeremy  looked  at  him  coolly,  and  spoke  in  a  tone  of 
restrained  sorrow.  "Scott,"  he  said,  "it  takes  more 
than  jabberers  like  this  chap  here  to  make  a  revolu- 
tion. They  want  a  few  damned  fools  like  you  to  help 
them.  I'm  going  on  before  the  trouble  begins."  And 
he  drew  back  from  the  lorry  and  began  to  look  about 
for  a  place  where  the  crowd  might  be  a  little  sparser. 
The  orator  on  the  broken  chair  had  now  been  replaced 
by  another,  an  Englishman,  of  the  serious  type,  one 
of  those  working-men  whose  passion  it  is  to  instruct 
their  fellows  and  who  preach  political  reform  with 
the  earnestness  and  sobriety  of  the  early  evangelical 
missionaries.  He  was  speaking  in  a  quiet,  intense 
tone,  without  rant  or  excitement,  and  the  crowd  was 
listening  to  him  in  something  of  his  own  spirit.  Oc- 
casionally, when  he  paused  on  a  telling  sentence,  there 
were  low  rumbling  murmurs  of  assent  or  of  sympa- 
thetic comment. 

"No,  but  look  here "  came  from  the  lorry  after 

Jeremy  in  an  agonized  whisper.  But  he  saw  his  op- 
portunity, and  did  not  look  back  until  he  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  crowd  round  the  speaker.  He  went 
on  rapidly  eastwards  past  the  station,  his  mood  of 


i8        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

relief  already  replaced  by  an  ominous  mood  of  doubt. 
Once  or  twice,  until  the  turn  of  the  street  hid  them, 
he  glanced  apprehensively  over  his  shoulders  at  the 
crowd  and  the  string  of  motionless  lorries. 


CHAPTER  11 

THE  DEAD   RAT 


A  S  he  came  closer  to  Whitechapel  High  Street, 
"*-  *■  Jeremy  found  with  surprise  and  some  addition 
to  his  uneasiness,  that  this  district  had  a  more  wakeful 
and  week-day  appearance.  Many  of  the  shops  and 
eating-houses  were  open;  and  the  Government  order, 
issued  two  days  before,  forbidding  the  sale  of  liquor 
while  the  strike  menace  endured,  was  being  frankly 
disregarded.  This  was  the  first  use  that  had  been 
made  of  the  Public  Order  (Preservation  of)  Act, 
passed  hurriedly  and  almost  in  secret  two  or  three 
months  before;  and  Jeremy,  enquiring  what  his  own 
feelings  would  have  been  if  he  had  been  in  a  like  posi- 
tion to  the  restless  workmen,  had  been  stirred  out  of 
his  ordinary  political  indifference  to  call  it  unwise. 
He  might  have  been  stirred  to  even  greater  feeling 
about  the  original  Act  if  he  had  known  that  it  was 
principally  this  against  which  the  strikes  were  directed. 
But  he  had  omitted  to  ask  why  the  unions  were  strik- 
ing, and  no  one  had  told  him.  The  middle  classes  of 
those  days  had  got  used  to  unintelligible  and  appar- 
ently senseless  upheavals.  Now,  as  he  passed  by  one 
public-house  after  another,  all  open,  and  saw  the 
crowds  inside  and  round  the  doors,  conversing  with 
interest  and  perceptibly  rising  excitement  on  only  one 

19 


20        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

topic,  he  rather  wished  that  the  order  could  have  been 
enforced.  There  was  something  sinister  in  the  silence 
which  fell  where  he  passed.  He  felt  uncomfortably 
that  he  was  being  looked  at  with  suspicion. 

He  turned  out  of  the  wide  road,  now  empty  of  all 
wheeled  traffic,  except  for  a  derelict  tramcar  which 
stood  desolate,  apparently  where  driver  and  conductor 
had  struck  work  earlier  or  later  than  their  fellows. 
In  the  side  street  which  led  to  his  destination,  there 
were  mostly  women — dark,  ugly,  alien  women — sitting 
on  their  doorsteps;  and  he  began  to  feel  even  more 
afraid  of  them  than  of  the  men.  They  did  not  lower 
their  voices  as  he  passed,  but  he  could  not  understand 
what  they  were  saying.  But  as  he  swung  with  a  dis- 
tinct sense  of  relief  into  the  little  narrow  court  where 
Trehanoc  absurdly  lived  and  had  his  laboratory,  he 
heard  one  of  them  call  after  him,  "Dir-r-rty  bour- 
rgeois!"  and  all  the  rest  laugh  ominously  together. 
The  repetition  of  the  phrase  in  this  new  accent  startled 
him  and  he  fretted  at  the  door  because  Trehanoc  did 
not  immediately  answer  his  knock. 

"Damn  you  for  living  down  here !"  he  said  heartily, 
when  Trehanoc  at  last  opened  to  him.  "I  don't  like 
your  neighbors  at  all." 

"I  know.  ...  I  know.  .  .  ,"  Trehanoc  an- 
swered apologetically.     "But  how  could  I  expect ■ 

And  anyway  they're  nice  people  really  when  you  get 
to  know  them.  I  get  on  very  well  with  them."  He 
paused  and  looked  with  some  apprehension  at  Jeremy's 
annoyed  countenance. 

He  was  a  Cornishman,  a  tall,  loose,  queerly  excitable 
and  eccentric  fellow,  with  whom,  years  before.  Jeremy 
had  worked  in  the  laboratories  at  University  College. 
He  had  taken  his  degree — just  taken  it — and  this  re- 


THE  DEAD  RAT  21 

suit,  while  not  abating  his  strange  passion  for  research 
in  physics,  seemed  to  have  destroyed  forever  all  hope 
of  his  indulging  it.  After  that  no  one  knew  what 
he  had  done,  until  a  distant  relative  had  died  and  left 
him  a  few  hundreds  a  year  and  the  empty  warehouse 
in  Lime  Court.  He  had  accepted  the  legacy  as  a  direct 
intervention  of  providence,  refused  the  specious  offers 
of  a  Hebrew  dealer  in  fur  coats,  and  had  fitted  up 
the  crazy  building  as  a  laboratory,  with  a  living-room 
or  two,  where  he  spent  vastly  exciting  hours  pursuing 
with  the  sketchiest  of  home-made  apparatus  the  ab- 
strusest  of  natural  mysteries.  One  or  two  old 
acquaintances  of  the  Gower  Street  days  had  run  across 
him  here  and  there,  and,  on  confessing  that  they  were 
still  devoted  to  science,  had  been  urgently  invited  to 
pay  a  visit  to  Whitechapel.  They  had  returned,  half- 
alarmed,  half-amused,  and  had  reported  that  Trehanoc 
was  madder  than  ever,  and  was  attempting  the  trans- 
mutation of  the  elements  with  a  home-made  electric 
coil,  an  old  jam-jar,  and  a  biscuit  tin.  They  also 
reported  that  his  neighborhood  was  rich  in  disagree- 
able smells  and  that  his  laboratory  was  inhabited  by 
rats. 

But  Jeremy's  taste  in  acquaintances  was  broad  and 
comprehensive,  always  provided  that  they  escaped 
growing  tedious.  After  his  first  visit  to  Lime  Court  he 
had  not  been  slow  in  paying  a  second.  His  acquaint- 
ance ripened  into  friendship  with  Trehanoc,  whom  he 
regarded,  perhaps  only  half-consciously,  as  being  an 
inspired,  or  at  any  rate  an  exceedingly  lucky,  fool. 
When  he  received  an  almost  illegible  and  quite  inco- 
herent summons  to  go  and  see  a  surprising  new  exper- 
iment, "something,"  as  the  fortunate  discoverer  put  it, 
"very  funny,"  he  had  at  once  promised  to  go.     It 


22        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

was  characteristic  of  him  that,  having  promised,  he 
went,  although  he  had  to  walk  through  disturbed  Lon- 
don, arrived  grumbling,  and  reassured  his  anxious  host 
without  once  ceasing  to  complain  of  the  inconvenience 
he  had  suffered. 

"I  ought  to  tell  you,"  Trehanoc  said,  with  increased 
anxiety  when  Jeremy  paused  to  take  breath,  "that  a 
man's  dropped  in  to  lunch.  I  didn't  ask  him,  and  he 
isn't  a  scientist,  and  he  talks  rather  a  lot,  but — but — 
I  don't  suppose  he'll  be  much  in  the  way,"  he  finished 
breathlessly. 

"All  right,  Augustus,"  Jeremy  replied  in  a  more 
resigned  tone,  and  with  a  soothing  wave  of  his  hand, 
"carry  on.  I  don't  suppose  one  extra  useless  object 
in  one  of  your  experiments  will  make  any  particular 
difference." 

He  followed  Trehanoc  with  lumbering  speed  up  the 
narrow,  uncarpeted  stairs  and  into  the  big  loft  which 
served  for  living-room  and  kitchen  combined.  There 
he  saw  the  useless  object  stretched  on  a  couch — a 
pleasant  youth  of  rather  disheveled  appearance,  who 
raised  his  head  and  said  lazily : 

"Hullo!  It's  you,  is  it?  We  met  last  night,  but  I 
don't  suppose  you  remember  that." 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Jeremy  shortly. 

"No,  I  thought  you  wouldn't.  My  name's  Maclan. 
You  must  have  known  that  last  night,  because  you 
told  me  twice  that  no  man  whose  name  began  with 
Mac  ever  knew  when  he  was  boring  the  company." 

"Did  I?"  Jeremy  looked  a  little  blank,  and  then 
began  to  brighten.  "Of  course.  You  were  the  man 
who  was  talking  about  the  General  Strike  being  a 
myth.     I  hope  I  didn't  hurt  your  feelings  too  much?" 

"Not  at  all.    I  knew  you  meant  well;  and,  after  all, 


THE  DEAD  RAT  23 

you  weren't  in  a  condition  to  realize  what  I  was  up  to. 
The  secret  of  it  all  was  that  by  boring  all  the  rest  of 
the  company  till  they  wanted  to  scream  I  was  very 
effectually  preventing  them  from  boring  me.  You 
see,  I  saw  ai  once  that  the  politicians  had  taken  the 
floor  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  I  knew  that  the 
only  way  to  deal  with  them  was  to  irritate  them 
on  their  own  ground.  It  was  rather  good  sport  really, 
only,  of  course,  you  couldn't  be  expected  to  see  the 
point  of  it." 

Jeremy  began  to  chuckle  with  appreciation.  "Very 
good,"  he  agreed.  "Very  good.  I  wish  I'd  known." 
And  Trehanoc,  who  had  been  hovering  behind  him 
uneasily,  holding  a  frying-pan,  said  with  a  deep  breath 
of  reHef :   "That's  all  right,  then." 

"What  the  devil's  the  matter  with  you,  Augustus?" 
Jeremy  cried,  wheeling  round  on  him.  "What  do  you 
mean,  'That's  all  right,  then'  ?" 

"I  was  only  afraid  you  two  chaps  would  quarrel," 
he  explained.  "You're  both  of  you  rather  difficult  to 
get  on  with."  And  he  disappeared  with  the  frying- 
pan  into  the  corner  which  was  curtained  off  for 
cooking. 

"Old  Trehanoc's  delightfully  open  about  every- 
thing," Maclan  observed,  stretching  himself  and  light- 
ing a  cigarette.  "I  suppose  we  all  of  us  have  to  apolo- 
gize for  a  friend  to  another  now  and  again,  but  he's 
the  only  man  I  ever  met  that  did  it  in  the  presence  of 
both.  It's  the  sort  of  thing  that  makes  a  man  dis- 
tinctive." 

Lunch  was  what  the  two  guests  might  have  ex- 
pected, and  probably  did.  The  sausages  would  no 
doubt  have  been  more  successful  if  Trehanoc  had  re- 
membered to  provide  either  potatoes  or  bread;  but 


24        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

his  half-hearted  offer  of  a  httle  uncooked  oatmeal  was 
summarily  rejected.  Jeremy's  appetite,  however,  was 
reviving,  and  Maclan  plainly  cared  very  little  what  he 
ate.  His  interest  lay  rather  in  talking;  and  through- 
out the  meal  he  discoursed  to  a  stolidly  masticating 
Jeremy  and  a  nervous,  protesting  Trehanoc  on  the 
theme  that  civilization  had  reached  and  passed  its 
climax  and  was  hurrying  into  the  abyss.  He  instanced 
the  case  of  Russia. 

"Russia,"  he  said,  leaning  over  towards  the  Cor- 
nishman  and  marking  his  points  with  flourishes  of  a 
fork,  "Russia  went  so  far  that  she  couldn't  get  back. 
For  a  long  time  they  shouted  for  the  blockade  to  be 
raised  so  that  they  could  get  machinery  for  their  fac- 
tories and  their  railways.  Now  they've  been  without 
it  so  long  they  don't  want  it  any  more.  Oh,  of  course, 
they  still  talk  about  reconstruction  and  rebuilding  the 
railways  and  so  forth,  but  it'll  never  happen.  It's  too 
late.  They've  dropped  down  a  stage ;  and  there  they'll 
stop,  unless  they  go  lower  still,  as  they  are  quite 
likely  to." 

Trehanoc  looked  up  with  a  fanatical  gleam  in  his 
big  brown  eyes,  which  faded  as  he  saw  Maclan,  poised 
and  alert,  waiting  for  him,  and  Jeremy  quietly  eating 
with  the  greatest  unconceren.  "I  don't  care  what  you 
say,"  he  muttered  sullenly,  dropping  his  head  again. 
"There's  no  limit  to  what  science  can  do.  Look  what 
we've  done  in  the  last  hundred  years.  We  shall  dis- 
cover the  origin  of  matter,  and  how  to  transmute  the 
elements;  we  shall  abolish  disease  .  .  .  and  there's 
my  discovery " 

"But,  my  dear  man,"  Maclan  interrupted,  "just  be- 
cause we've  done  this,  that,  and  the  other  in  the  last 
hundred  years,  there's  no  earthly  reason  for  supposing 


THE  DEAD  RAT  25 

that  we  shall  go  on  doing  it.  You  don't  allow  for  the 
delicacy  of  all  these  things  or  for  the  brutality  of  the 
forces  that  are  going  to  break  them  up.  Why,  if  you 
got  the  world  really  in  a  turmoil  for  thirty  years,  at 
the  end  of  that  time  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  find  a 
man  who  could  mend  your  electric  light,  and  you'd 
have  forgotten  how  to  do  it  yourself.  And  you  don't 
allow  for  the  fact  that  we  ourselves  change.  .  .  . 
What  do  you  say.  Tuft?    You're  a  scientist,  too." 

"The  present  state  of  our  knowledge,"  Jeremy  re- 
plied cheerfully  with  his  mouth  full,  "doesn't  justify 
prophecies." 

"Ah!  our ' knowledge  .  .  .  no,  perhaps  not.  But 
our  intuitions!"  And  here,  as  he  spoke,  Maclan 
seemed  to  grow  for  a  moment  a  little  more  serious. 
"Don't  you  know  there's  a  moment  in  anything — a 
holiday,  or  a  party,  or  a  love-affair,  or  whatever  you 
like — when  you  feel  that  you've  reached  the  climax, 
and  that  there's  nothing  more  to  come.  I  feel  that 
now.  Oh !  it's  been  a  good  time,  and  we  seemed  to 
be  getting  freer  and  freer  and  richer  and  richer.  But 
now  we've  got  as  far  as  we  can  and  everything 
changes.  .  .  .  Change  here  for  the  Dark  Ages!" 
he  added  with  a  sudden  alteration  in  his  manner.  "In 
fact,  if  I  may  put  it  so,  this  is  where  we  get  out  and 
walk." 

Jeremy  looked  at  him,  wondering  vaguely  how  much 
of  this  was  genuine  and  how  much  mere  discourse. 
He  thought  that,  whichever  it  was,  on  the  whole  he 
disliked  it.  "Oh!  we  shall  go  jogging  on  just  as 
usual,"  he  said  at  last,  as  matter-of-fact  as  he  could. 

"Oh,  no,  we  shan't!"  Maclan  returned  with  equal 
coolness.    "We  shall  go  to  eternal  smash," 

Trehanoc  looked  up  again  from  the  food  he  had 


26        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

been  wolfing  down  with  absent-minded  ferocity.  "It 
doesn't  matter  what  either  of  you  thinks,"  he  affirmed 
earnestly.     "There's  no  limit  to  what  we  are  going 

to  do.     We "     A  dull  explosion  filled  their  ears 

and  shook  the  windows. 

"And  what  in  hell's  that?"  cried  Jeremy. 


For  a  moment  all  three  of  them  sat  rigid,  staring 
instinctively  out  of  the  windows,  whence  nothing  could 
be  seen  save  the  waving  branches  of  the  tree  that  gave 
its  name  to  Lime  Court.  Maclan  at  last  broke  the 
silence. 

"The  Golden  Age,"  he  said  solemnly,  "has  tripped 
over  the  mat.  Hadn't  we  better  go  and  see  what's 
happened  to  it?" 

"Don't  be  a  fool!"  Jeremy  ejaculated.  "If  there 
really  is  trouble  these  streets  won't  be  too  pleasant, 
and  we'd  better  not  draw  attention  to  ourselves."  Im- 
mediately in  the  rear  of  his  words  came  the  confused 
noise  of  many  people  running  and  shouting.  It  was 
the  mixed  population  of  Whitechapel  going  to  see 
what  was  up;  and  before  many  of  them  could  have 
done  so,  the  real  fighting  must  have  begim.  The  sound 
of  firing,  scattered  and  spasmodic,  punctuated  by  the 
dull,  vibrating  bursts  which  Jeremy  recognized  for- 
bombs,  came  abruptly  to  the  listeners  in  the  warehouse. 
There  was  an  opening  and  shutting  of  windows  and 
a  banging  of  doors,  men  shouting  and  women  crying, 
as  though  suddenly  the  whole  district  had  been  set  in 
motion.  All  this  gradually  died  away  again  and  left 
to  come  sharper  and  clearer  the  incessant  noise  of  the 
rifles  and  the  bombs. 


THE  DEAD  RAT  27 

"Scott  has  set  them  going,"  Jeremy  murmured  ta 
himself,  almost  content  in  the  fulfilment  of  a  prophecy, 
and  then  he  said  aloud :  "Have  you  got  any  cigarettes, 
Augustus?  I  can't  say  we're  well  off  where  we  are, 
but  we've  got  to  stop  for  a  bit." 

Trehanoc  produced  a  tin  of  Virginians  which  he 
offered  to  his  guests.  "I'm  afraid,"  he  said  miser- 
ably, "that  this  isn't  a  very  good  time  for  asking  you 
to  have  a  look  at  my  experiment."  Jeremy  surveyed 
him  with  a  curious  eye,  and  reflected  that  the  contrast 
in  the  effect  of  the  distant  firing  on  the  three  of  them 
was  worth  observation.  He  himself  did  not  pretend 
to  like  it,  but  knew  that  nothing  could  be  done,  and 
so  endured  it  stoically.  Maclan  had  settled  in  an  arm- 
chair with  a  cigarette  and  a  very  tattered  copy  of  La 
Vie  Parisienne,  and  was  giving  an  exhibition  of  almost 
flippant  unconcern;  but  every  time  there  was  a  louder 
burst  of  fire  his  shoulders  twitched  slightly.  Tre- 
hanoc's  behavior  was  the  most  interesting  of  all.  He 
had  been  nervous  and  excited  while  they  were  at  table, 
and  the  explosion  had  obviously  accentuated  his  condi- 
tion. But  he  had  somehow  turned  his  excitement  into 
the  channel  of  his  discovery,  and  his  look  of  hungry 
and  strained  disappointment  was  pathetic  to  witness. 
It  touched  Jeremy's  heart,  and  moved  him  to  say  as 
heartily  as  he  could  : 

"Nonsense,  old  fellow.  We'll  come  along  and  see 
it  in  a  moment.     What's  it  all  about?" 

Trehanoc  murmured  "Thanks  awfully  ...  I 
was  afraid  you  wouldn't  want  .  .  ." — like  a  child  who 
has  feared  that  the  party  would  not  take  place  after 
all.  Then  he  sat  down  sprawlingly  in  a  chair  and 
fixed  his  wild,  shining  eyes  on  Jeremy's  face.  "You 
see,"  he  began,  "I  think  it's  a  new  ray.  I'm  almost  cer- 


28         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

tain  it's  a  new  ray.  But  I'm  not  quite  certain  how  I 
got  it.  I'll  show  you  all  that  later.  But  it's  some- 
thing like  the  ray  that  man  used  to  change  bacilli. 
He  changed  bacilli  into  cocci,  or  something.  I'm  no 
biologist;  I  was  going  to  get  in  a  biologist  when  you'd 
helped  me  a  bit.  You  remember  the  experiment  I 
mean,  don't  you?" 

"Vaguely,"  said  Jeremy.  "It's  a  bit  out  of  my 
line,  but  my  recollection  is  that  he  used  alpha  rays. 
However,  go  on." 

"Well,  that's  what  I  was  after,"  Trehanoc  con- 
tinued. "I  believe  these  rays  do  something  of  the 
same  kind,  and  they've  got  other  properties  I  don't 
understand.  There's  the  rat  .  .  .  but  I'll  show  you 
the  rat  later  on.  And  then  I  got  my  hand  in  front  of 
the  vacuum-tube  for  half  a  second  without  any  pro- 
tection.   ..." 

"Did  you  get  a  burn?"  Jeremy  asked  sharply. 

"No,"  said  Trehanoc.  "No  ...  I  didn't  .  .  . 
that's  the  strange  thing.  I'd  got  a  little  radium  burn 
on  that  hand  already,  and  a  festering  cut  as  well,  where 
I  jabbed  myself  with  the  tin-opener.  .  .  .  Well,  first 
of  all,  my  hand  went  queer.  It  was  a  sort  of  dead, 
numb  feeling,  spreading  into  the  arm  above  the  wrist, 
and  I  was  scared,  I  can  tell  you.  I  was  almost  certain 
that  these  were  new  rays,  and  I  hadn't  the  least  notion 
what  effect  they  might  have  on  living  tissue.  The 
numbness  kept  on  all  day,  with  a  sort  of  tingling  in 
the  finger-tips,  and  I  went  to  bed  in  a  bit  of  a  panic. 
And  when  I  woke,  the  radium  burn  had  quite  gone, 
leaving  a  little  scar  behind,  and  the  cut  had  begun  to 
heal.     It  was  very  nearly  healed!" 

"Quite  sure  it's  a  new  ray?"  Jeremy  interjected. 

"Oh,  very  nearly  sure.     You  see,  I "  and  he 


THE  DEAD  RAT  29 

entered  into  a  long  and  highly  technical  argument 
which  left  Jeremy  both  satisfied  and  curious.  At  the 
close  of  it  Maclan  remarked  in  a  tone  of  deep 
melancholy : 

"Tre,  my  old  friend,  if  the  experiment  isn't  more 
exciting  than  the  lecture,  I  shall  go  out  and  take  my 
turn  on  the  barricades.  I  got  lost  at  the  point  where 
you  began  talking  about  electrons.  Do,  for  heaven's 
sake,  let's  go  and  see  your  hell-broth!" 

"Would  you  like  to  go  and  see  it  now?"  Trehanoc 
asked,  watching  Jeremy's  face  with  solicitous  anxiety ; 
and  receiving  assent  he  led  the  way  at  once,  saying, 
"You  know,  I  use  the  cellar  for  this  radio-active  work. 
The  darkness  .  .  .  And  by  the  way,"  he  inter- 
rupted himself,  "look  out  how  you  go.  This  house  is 
in  a  rotten  state  of  repair."  The  swaying  of  the  stairs 
down  from  the  loft,  when  all  three  were  upon  them, 
confirmed  him  alarmingly. 

As  they  went  past  the  front-door  towards  the  cellar- 
steps,  Jeremy,  cocking  his  head  sideways,  thought  that 
every  now  and  then  some  of  the  shots  rang  out  much 
louder,  as  though  the  skirmishing  was  getting  close  to 
Lime  Court.  But  he  was  by  now  deeply  interested 
in  Trehanoc's  experiment,  and  followed  without 
speaking. 

When  they  came  down  into  the  cellar  Trehanoc 
touched  a  switch  and  revealed  a  long  room,  lit  only 
in  the  nearer  portion,  where  electric  bulbs  hung  over 
two  great  laboratory  tables  and  stretching  away  into 
clammy  darkness. 

"Here  it  is,"  he  said  nervously,  indicating  the 
further  of  the  two  tables,  and  hung  on  Jeremy's  first 
words, 

Jeremy's  first  words  were  characteristic.    "How  you 


30         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

ever  get  any  result  at  all,"  he  said,  slowly  and  inci- 
sively, "is  more  than  I  can  make  out.  This  table  looks 
as  though  some  charwoman  had  been  piling  rubbish 
on  it." 

"Yes,  I  know.  ...  I  know.  .  ."  Trehanoc  ad- 
mitted in  a  voice  of  shame.  "That's  where  I  wanted 
you  to  help  me.  You  see,  I  can't  be  quite  sure  exactly 
what  it  is  that  docs  determine  the  result.  There's  the 
vacuum-tube,  worked  by  a  coil,  and  there's  an  electric' 
magnet  .  .  .  and  that  tube  on  the  other  side  has  got 
radium-emanation  in  it.    ..." 

"And  then  there's  the  dead  rat,"  Jeremy  interrupted 
rather  brutally.  "What  about  the  dead  rat?  Does 
that  affect  the  result?"  He  pointed  with  a  forefinger, 
expressing  some  disgust,  to  a  remarkably  sleek  and 
well-favored  corpse  which  decorated  the  end  of  the 
table. 

"I  was  going  to  tell  you  .  .  ."  Trehanoc  mut- 
tered, twisting  one  hand  in  the  other.  "You  know, 
there  are  rather  a  lot  of  rats  in  this  cellar " 

"I  know,"  said  Jeremy. 

"And  when  I  was  making  the  first  experiment  that 
chap  jumped  on  to  the  table  and  ran  across  in  front 
of  the  vacuum-tube " 

"Well?" 

"And  he  just  dropped  like  that,  dropped  dead  in  his 
tracks  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  I  was  frightfully  ex- 
cited, so  I  only  picked  him  up  by  his  tail  and  threw 
him  away  and  forgot  all  about  him.  And  then  quite 
a  long  time  afterwards,  when  I  was  looking  for  some- 
thing, I  came  across  him,  iust  like  that,  just  as 
fresh " 

"And  when  was  that  ?"  Jeremy  asked. 


THE  DEAD  RAT  31 

"It  must  be  quite  six  weeks  since  I  made  that  first 
experiment." 

"So  he's  one  of  the  exhibits,"  Jeremy  began  slowly. 
But  a  new  outbreak  of  firing,  unmistakably  closer  at 
hand,  broke  across  his  sentence.  Maclan,  who  was 
beginning  to  find  the  rat  a  little  tedious,  and  had  been 
hoping  that  Trehanoc  would  soon  turn  a  handle  and 
produce  long,  crackling  sparks,  snatched  at  the  inter- 
ruption. 

"I  must  go  up  and  see  what's  happening!"  he  cried. 
"I'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 

He  vanished  up  the  steps.  When  he  returned, 
Jeremy  was  still  turning  over  the  body  of  the  rat 
with  a  thoughtful  expression  and  placing  it  delicately 
to  his  nose  for  olfactory  evidence.  Trehanoc,  who 
seemed  to  have  begun  to  think  that  there  was  some- 
thing shameful,  if  not  highly  suspicious,  in  the  ex- 
istence of  the  corpse,  stood  before  him  in  an  almost 
suppliant  attitude,  twisting  his  long  fingers  together, 
and  shuffling  his  feet. 

Maclan  disregarded  the  high  scientific  deliberations. 
"I  say,"  he  cried  with  the  almost  hysterical  flippancy 
that  sometimes  denotes  serious  nerve-strain,  "it's 
frightfully  exciting.  The  fighting  is  getting  nearer, 
and  somebody's  got  a  machine-gun  trained  down 
Whitechapel  High  Street.  There's  nobody  in  sight 
here,  but  I'm  certain  there  are  people  firing  from  the 
houses  round  about." 

"Oh,  damn!"  said  Jeremy  uneasily  but  absently, 
continuing  to  examine  the  rat. 

"And,  I  say,  Tre,"  Maclan  went  on,  "do  you  think 
this  barn  of  yours  would  stand  a  bomb  or  two?  It 
looks  to  me  as  if  it  would  fall  over  if  you  pushed  it." 

"I'm  afraid  it  would,"  Trehanoc  admitted,  looking 


32         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

as  if  he  ought  to  apologize.  "In  fact,  I'm  always 
afraid  that  they'll  condemn  it,  but  I  can't  afford 
repairs." 

"Oh,  hang  all  that!"  Jeremy  suddenly  interjected. 
"This  is  extraordinarily  interesting.  Get  the  thing 
going,  Trehanoc,  and  let's  have  a  look  at  your  rays." 

"That's  right,  Tre,''  said  Maclan.  "We're  caught, 
so  let's  make  the  best  of  it.  Let's  try  and  occupy  our 
minds  as  the  civilians  used  to  in  the  old  air-raid  days. 
Stick  to  the  dead  rat,  Tre,  and  let  politics  alone."  He 
laughed — a  laugh  in  which  hysteria  was  now  plainly 
perceptible — but  Trehanoc,  disregarding  him,  went 
into  a  corner  and  began  fumbling  with  the  switches. 
In  a  moment  the  vacuum-tube  began  to  glow  faintly, 
and  Jeremy  and  Trehanoc  bent  over  it  together. 

Suddenly  a  loud  knocking  at  the  front  door  echoed 
down  the  cellar  steps.  Trehanoc  twitched  his 
shoulders  irritatingly,  but  otherwise  did  not  move. 
A  moment  after  it  was  repeated,  and  in  addition  there 
was  a  more  menacing  sound  as  though  some  one  were 
trying  to  break  the  door  in  with  a  heavy  instrument. 

"You'd  better  go  and  see  what  it  is,  Augustus," 
Jeremy  murmured  absorbedly.  "It  may  be  some  one 
wanting  to  take  shelter  from  the  firing.  Go  on,  and 
I'll  watch  this  thing." 

Trehanoc  obediently  but  reluctantly  went  up  the 
cellar  steps,  and  Jeremy,  with  some  idle,  half-appre- 
hending portion  of  his  mind,  heard  him  throw  open 
the  front  door  and  heard  the  sound  of  angry  voices 
coming  through.  But  he  remained  absorbed  in  the 
vacuum-tube,  until  Maclan,  who  was  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps,  said  in  a  piercing  whisper : 

"Here,  Tuft,  come  here  and  listen!" 

/ 


THE  DEAD  RAT  33 

"Yes?  What  is  it?"  Jeremy  replied  vaguely,  with- 
out changing  his  position. 

"Come  here  quickly,"  Maclan  whispered  in  an 
urgent  tone.  Jeremy  was  aroused  and  went  to  the 
foot  of  the  steps  to  listen.  For  a  moment  he  could 
only  hear  voices  speaking  angrily,  and  then  he  dis- 
tinguished Trehanoc's  voice  shouting : 

"You  fools!  I  tell  you  there's  no  one  in  the  upper 
rooms.  How  could  any  one  be  firing  from  the  win- 
dows?" There  was  a  shot  and  a  gurgling  scream. 
Jeremy  and  Maclan  turned  to  look  at  one  another, 
and  each  saw  the  other's  face  ghastly,  distorted  by 
shadows  which  the  electric  light  in  the  cellar  could 
not  quite  dispel. 

"Good  God!"  screamed  Maclan.  "They've  killed 
him !"  He  started  wildly  up  the  stairs.  Jeremy,  as  he 
began  to  follow  him,  heard  another  shot,  saw  Maclan 
poised  for  a  moment,  arms  up,  on  the  edge  of  a  step, 
and  just  had  time  to  flatten  himself  against  the  wall 
before  the  body  fell  backwards.  He  ran  down  again 
into  the  cellar,  and  began  looking  about  desperately 
for  a  weapon  of  some  kind. 

As  he  was  doing  so  there  was  a  cautious  footstep 
on  the  stair.  "Bombs!"  he  thought,  and  instinctively 
threw  himself  on  the  floor.  The  next  moment  the 
bomb  landed,  thrown  well  out  in  the  middle  of  the 
cellar,  and  it  seemed  that  a  flying  piece  spun  viciously 
through  his  hair.  And  then  he  saw  the  table  which 
held  the  glowing  vacuum-tube  slowly  tilting  towards 
him  and  all  the  appartus  sliding  to  the  floor,  and  at 
the  same  moment  he  became  aware  that  the  cellar-roof 
was  descending  on  his  head.  He  had  time  and  wit 
enough  to  crawl  under  the  other  table  before  it  fell. 
Darkness  came  with  it. 


34        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

Jeremy  struggled  for  a  moment  against  unconscious- 
ness. Then  something  seemed  to  be  going  round  and 
round,  madly  and  erratically  at  first,  finally  settling 
into  a  regular  motion  of  enormous  speed.  He  was 
vaguely  aware  of  the  glowing  vacuum-tube,  and  the 
dead  rat,  partly  illuminated  by  it,  close  to  his  face; 
but  he  felt  himself  being  borne  away,  he  knew  not 
whither.  A  sort  of  peace  in  that  haste  overtook  his 
limbs  and  he  slept. 


CHAPTER  III 

A   WORLD   GROWN    STRANGE 


'117' HEN  Jeremy  awoke  at  last  it  was  to  find  only 
^  ^  the  change  from  darkness  of  the  mind  to  dark- 
ness of  the  eyes.  No  dreams  had  stirred  his  sleep 
with  memories  or  premonitions.  At  one  moment  that 
great  engine  had  still  been  implacably  and  regularly 
revolving.  At  the  next  it  slackened  and  stopped ;  and, 
without  any  transition,  he  found  himself  prone,  star- 
ing into  the  blackness  as  he  had  hopelessly  stared  when 
he  saw  the  cellar-roof  coming  down  upon  him.  He 
felt  no  pain,  nor  was  there  any  singing  or  dizziness  in 
his  head.  There  was  only  a  sort  of  blankness,  in 
which  he  had  hardly  begun  to  wonder  where  he  was. 
He  assumed  for  a  moment  that  he  was  in  his  own  bed 
and  in  his  own  flat.  But  two  things  persuaded  him 
that  he  was  not.  He  had  been  awakened  by  something 
soft  and  damp  falling  on  his  eyes,  and  when  he  tried 
to  brush  it  away  he  found  that  he  could  not  use  his 
arms.    Then  he  remembered. 

But  the  memory  brought  for  the  moment  a  panic 
that  made  him  dizzy.  The  bomb  had  been  thrown, 
the  roof  had  fallen,  and,  from  then  till  now,  there  had 
been  only  darkness.  What  more  certain  than  that 
in  that  catastrophe,  which  he  now  so  clearly  recalled, 
his  back  had  been  broken,  so  that  he  lay  there  with 

35 


36        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

no  more  than  an  hour  or  two  to  live?  The  absence 
of  pain  made  it  only  the  more  terrible,  for  had  he  been 
in  agony  he  might  have  welcomed  death,  which  now 
would  approach,  unmasked,  in  the  most  hateful  as- 
pect. He  made  a  convulsive  movement  with  his  body, 
which  showed  him  that  he  was  held  all  along  his  length, 
and  confirmed  his  fears.  But,  in  the  calmness  of 
despair  which  followed,  he  became  conscious  that  the 
air  he  was  breathing  was  exceedingly  close.  Then  he 
realized  wdth  a  relief  that  again  made  him  giddy 
that  his  back  was  not  broken,  but  that  he  was  unable 
to  move  because  he  was  in  some  way  pinned  under 
the  ruins  of  Trehanoc's  crazy  warehouse.  He  made 
a  renewed  effort  to  stir  his  body;  and  this  time  he 
was  rewarded  by  an  inch  of  difficult  motion  in  each 
limb. 

Fortified  by  this  assurance,  he  lay  still  for  a  few 
seconds,  and  tried  to  make  out  his  position.  He  was 
held  tight  at  every  point,  but  he  was  not  crushed. 
Neither  was  he  suffocated,  nor,  as  it  seemed,  in  any 
immediate  danger  of  it.  In  these  circumstances,  to 
be  buried  alive  was  a  comparatively  small  evil;  it 
would  be  odd  if  he  could  not  somehow  dig  himself  out. 
The  problem  was  merely  how  to  do  so  with  the  least 
danger  of  dislodging  the  still  unstable  debris  above 
him  and  so  putting  himself  in  a  worse  position  than 
before.  Apparently  the  ruins  had  formed  a  very  con- 
stricted vault  fitting  closely  to  his  body  and  raised  a 
little  over  his  face,  where  they  seemed  to  admit  the 
passage  of  air.  It  was  obvious  that  his  first  step  was 
to  clear  his  face  so  that  he  might  see  what  he  was 
doing.  But  to  do  this  he  needed  a  free  arm,  and  he 
could  not  move  either  of  his  arms  more  than  an  inch 
or  two.     Nevertheless  he  set  to  work  to  move  his 


A  WORLD  GROWN  STRANGE        37 

right  arm  to  and  fro  in  the  cramped  space  that  was 
possible. 

The  result  delighted  him.  The  roof  of  his  grave 
was  some  hard  substance,  probably  wood,  so  a  splinter 
informed  him;  and  he  remembered  the  table  under 
which  he  had  crawled  just  in  time.  It  must  have 
buckled,  so  as  to  make  a  shield  for  him;  and  now, 
though  he  could  not  pick  it  away,  it  yielded — an  infin- 
itesimal distance  at  a  time,  but  still  it  yielded.  Pres- 
ently he  was  able  to  crook  his  elbow,  and  soon  after 
that  to  draw  his  hand  up  to  his  face.  Then  he  began 
to  remove  the  roof  which  hung  an  inch  or  two  from 
his  eyes.  The  process  was  unpleasant,  for  as  he 
plucked  at  the  roof  it  crumbled  between  his  fingers, 
and  he  was  not  able  to  protect  his  face  from  the  dust 
that  fell  on  it.  In  the  darkness  he  could  not  trust  his 
sense  of  touch,  but  otherwise  he  would  have  sworn 
that,  with  pieces  of  wood,  which  he  expected,  he  was 
tearing  up  and  pushing  away  damp  clods  of  grass- 
grown  earth.  He  had  to  keep  his  eyes  closed  while 
he  worked.  After  a  little  while,  when  he  judged  that 
he  had  made  an  opening,  he  laboriously  brushed  his 
face  clear  of  dust,  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  anx- 
iously up.  There  was  darkness  above  him  still,  and 
a  cool  breath  passed  over  his  forehead.  It  was  night. 
A  single  star  hung  motionless  in  the  field  of  his  vision. 

A  little  exhausted  by  his  efforts,  Jeremy  let  his  head 
sink  down  again,  and  reflected.  Clearly  the  whole 
warehouse  had  come  down  with  a  surprising  com- 
pleteness, since  he  was  able  to  look  straight  up  into 
the  sky.  And  there  was  another  thing  that  engaged 
his  attention,  though  he  had  not  noticed  it  until  now. 
His  ears  were  quite  free  and  his  head  lay  at  last  in 
the  open,  but  still  he  could  hear  nothing.    Considering 


38        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

the  circumstances  in  which  he  had  been  buried,  he 
would  certainly  have  expected  to  hear  something  going 
on.  If  there  were  not  shots,  there  should  at  least 
have  been  shouting,  movement,  noise  of  some  kind — 
any  noise,  he  thought  suddenly,  rather  than  this  un- 
canny, unbroken  silence.  But  there  was  only  a  gentle, 
hardly  perceptible  rustling,  like  leaves  in  the  wind 
.  .  .  the  old  lime  tree  in  the  court  he  decided  at  last, 
which  had  escaped  when  the  warehouse  had  fallen. 
He  grew  almost  sentimental  in  thinking  about  it.  He 
had  looked  at  it  with  pleasure  on  that  fatal  day,  lean- 
ing from  the  window,  with  Maclan  and  Trehanoc  be- 
hind him ;  and  now  Maclan  and  Trehanoc  were  done 
for;  he  and  the  lime  tree  remained.    .    .    . 

The  fighting,  he  supposed  eventually,  when  his 
thoughts  returned  to  the  strange  silence,  must  have 
been  brought  to  an  end  in  some  very  decided  and 
effective  manner.  Perhaps  the  troops  had  got  the 
upper  hand  over  the  rioters,  and  had  used  it  so  as  to 
suppress  even  a  whisper  of  resistance.  "Peace  reigns 
in  Warsaw,"  he  quoted  grimly  to  himself.  But  this 
explanation  hardly  satisfied  him,  and  in  a  spasm  of 
curiosity  he  renewed  the  effort  to  free  himself  from 
his  grave. 

When  he  did  so,  he  made  the  discovery  that  the 
roof  of  his  vault  was  now  so  far  lifted  that  he  might 
have  drawn  himself  out,  but  for  something  that  was 
gripping  at  his  left  ankle.  He  could  kick  his  leg  an 
inch  or  so  further  down,  but  he  could  not  by  any  ex- 
ertion pull  it  further  out.  Here  a  new  panic  over- 
came him.  What  might  not  happen  to  him,  thus 
pinned  and  helpless,  on  such  a  night  as  this?  The 
fighting  seemed  to  have  gone  over,  but  it  might  return. 
The  men  who  had  killed  Trehanoc  and  Maclan  and 


A  WORLD  GROWN  STRANGE        39 

had  thrown  a  bomb  at  him  might  come  this  way  again. 
Something  might  set  fire  to  the  ruins  of  the  ware- 
house above  him.  The  troops  passing  by  might  see 
him,  take  him  for  a  rioter,  and  bomb  or  bayonet  him 
on  general  principles  of  making  all  sure.  As  these 
thoughts  passed  through  his  mind  he  struggled  furi- 
ously, and  did  not  cease  until  his  whole  body  was 
aching,  sweat  was  running  down  his  face,  and  his 
ankle  was  painfully  bruised  by  the  vise  which  held  it. 
Then  he  lay  panting  for  some  minutes,  like  a  wild 
animal  in  a  trap,  and  in  as  desperate  a  state  of  mind. 

But  again  the  coolness  of  despair  came  to  save  him. 
He  perceived  that  he  had  no  hope  save  in  lifting  the 
heavy  and  solid  timbers  of  the  table  which  had  closed 
about  him.  Only  in  this  way  could  he  see  what  it  was 
that  held  his  ankle ;  and,  hopeless  as  it  seemed,  he  must 
set  about  it.  The  effort  was  easier,  and  he  was  able  to 
work  more  methodically  than  when  he  had  given  him- 
self up  for  lost.  But  there  was  only  an  inch  or  two  for 
leverage ;  and  his  labors  continued,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
during  fruitless  hours.  Certainly  the  small  patch  of 
sky  which  was  visible  to  him  had  begun  to  grow  pale, 
and  the  one  star  had  wavered  and  gone  out  before  he 
felt  any  result.  Then,  suddenly,  without  warning,  the 
table  top  heaved  up  a  good  foot  under  his  pressure 
and  seemed  much  looser.  He  breathlessly  urged  his 
advantage,  while  the  fabric  of  his  grave  shook  and 
creaked  reluctantly.  He  shoved  once  more  with  the 
last  of  his  strength,  and  the  coffin  lid  lifted  bodily,  and 
the  invisible  fetter  on  his  ankle,  with  a  last  tweak, 
released  it.  He  lay  back  again,  fighting  for  breath, 
half  in  exhaustion,  half  in  hysteria.     He  was  free. 

When  at  last  he  was  a  little  recovered  he  drew  him- 
self gingerly  out,  looking  anxiously  into  the  vault  lest 


40        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

it  should  close  again  and  pin  him.  But  when  he  knelt 
on  the  edge  of  the  hole  from  which  he  had  safely 
emerged,  he  paused  in  a  frozen  rigidity.  The  dawn 
was  just  breaking,  and  there  was  a  little  mist,  with 
strange  and  unnatural  shadows.  In  Whitechapel,  as 
Jeremy  knew  it,  dawn  was  usually  apt  to  seem  a  little 
tarnished  and  cheerless.  That  neighborhood  always 
seemed  to  him  a  more  agreeable  object  for  study  when 
its  inhabitants  were  hurrying  about  their  business  than 
when  they  were  waking  and  first  opening  their  doors. 
But  this  morning,  as  he  knelt  in  an  involuntary  atti- 
tude of  thanksgiving  on  the  edge  of  his  grave,  Jeremy 
did  not  see  Whitechapel  at  all,  because  it  was  not  there. 
It  had  vanished  overnight. 

He  was  kneeling  on  short  grass,  and  the  crevice  in 
the  earth  from  which  he  had  crept  lay  towards  one 
end  of  a  shallow  depression,  enclosed  by  low  grassy 
banks.  A  young  poplar  in  the  middle  of  it  moved  its 
leaves  delicately  in  the  faint  wind.  All  round  were 
meadows  of  irregular  and  broken  surface,  with  a  few 
sheep  grazing  in  them,  and  here  and  there  patches 
of  bramble  and  wild  thorn.  Farther  off  Jeremy  could 
distinguish  small  groves  of  trees  and  the  dark  outlines 
of  low  houses  or  sheds.  Farther  off  still  he  saw,  black 
and  jagged  against  the  rising  sun,  something  that  re- 
sembled the  tumbled  ruins  of  a  great  public  building. 
He  turned  giddy  and  could  not  rise  from  his  knees. 
His  muscles  refused  their  service,  though  it  seemed 
that  he  strained  at  them  with  all  his  strength,  until  his 
stomach  revolted  and  he  was  seized  with  a  dreadful 
nausea,  which  shook  him  physically  and  brought  a 
sick  taste  into  his  mouth.  He  found  himself  looking 
down  at  his  grave  as  though  he  wanted  to  crawl  back 
into  it;  and  then  suddenly  an  inexplicable  horror  and 


A  WORLD  GROWN  STRANGE         41 

despair   overcame   him,   and   he   flung  himself    face 
downwards  in  the  dew-laden  grass. 


What  were  Jeremy's  thoughts  while  he  lay  face 
down  in  the  grass  he  could  not  himself  have  told.  They 
were  not  articulate,  consecutive  thoughts.  The  land- 
scape that  he  had  seen  on  emerging  from  his  grave 
had  pressed  him  back  into  the  shapeless  abysms  that 
lie  behind  reason  and  language.  But,  when  the  fit  had 
passed,  when  he  raised  his  head  again,  and  saw  that 
nothing  had  changed,  that  he  was  indeed  in  this  un- 
familiar country,  he  would  have  given  a  world  to 
be  able  to  accept  the  evidence  of  his  eyes  without 
incurring  an  immediate  self-accusation  of  folly. 

The  transition  from  the  image  in  his  mind  to  the 
image  which  his  eyes  gave  him  had  been  so  violent 
and  so  abrupt  that  it  had  wrenched  up  all  his  ordinary 
means  of  thought,  and  set  his  mind  wildly  adrift. 
During  a  moment  he  would  not  have  been  surprised 
to  hear  the  Last  Trump,  to  see  the  visible  world  go 
up  in  flame,  and  the  Court  of  Judgment  assembled  in 
the  sky.  He  told  himself  that  the  next  instant  Maclan 
and  Trehanoc  might  step  from  behind  the  nearest 
clump  of  thorn  and  greet  him.  But  the  new  landscape 
continued  stable  and  definite,  as  unlike  the  scene  of  an 
Apocalypse  as  the  creation  of  a  dream.  Could  this 
then  be  an  hallucination  of  unusual  completeness? 
And,  if  so,  had  those  dreadful  hours  during  which  he 
had  struggled  in  his  tomb  been  also  the  result  of  an 
hallucination?  He  stooped  absent-mindedly  to  the 
low  grassy  bank  by  which  he  was  standing  and  plucked 
a  confidently  promenading  snail  from  a  plantain  leaf. 


42         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

The  creature  hastily  drew  in  its  horns  and  retracted  its 
body  within  the  shell.    Was  that,  too,  delusion? 

And  yet,  the  day  before,  he  had  been  in  Trehanoc's 
warehouse  in  Lime  Court  in  Whitechapel,  there  had 
been  that  sudden  violence,  and,  as  he  still  clearly  re- 
membered, he  had  crawled  under  the  laboratory  table 
before  the  cellar  roof  had  fallen  on  him.  While  he 
had  struggled  through  the  night  to  free  himself,  a 
picture  of  the  place  had  been  perfectly  distinct  in  his 
mind.  On  emerging  he  had  turned  without  reflection 
to  where  he  knew  the  door  of  the  cellar  stood.  The 
table  which  had  saved  him  had  been  at  one  end  of  the 
cellar,  parallel  to  the  shorter  wall.  Jeremy  went  back 
to  his  crevice  and  stood  beside  it.  It  lay  in  a  depression 
which  was  roughly  four-sided,  and  it  was  parallel  to 
the  shorter  pair  of  sides.  Jeremy  bit  his  lips  and 
looked  about  him  vaguely.  Over  there  should  have 
been  the  cellar  steps,  and,  going  up  them,  one  came  to 
the  front  door  .  .  .  just  over  there  .  .  .  and 
Jjeyond  the  front  door  there  had  been  the  flags  of  Lime 
Court.  Jeremy  followed  this  imaginary  path  with  the 
absorbed  care  and  exactitude  which  were  his  means  of 
keeping  in  touch  with  reason.  Where  the  flag-stones 
should  have  been  there  was  now  soft  turf,  dotted  here 
and  there  with  the  droppings  of  sheep.  And  suddenly 
Jeremy  saw  a  patch  where  something  had  rubbed  away 
the  turf  and  stone  protruded.  .  .  . 

He  stood  above  it,  legs  wide  apart,  teeth  clenched, 
and  hands  gripped.  He  felt  like  a  man  whom  a  torrent 
carries  down  a  dark  cleft  towards  something  he  dares 
not  conjecture.  But  when  this  fit,  too,  had  passed 
away  he  felt  nothing  more  acutely  than  the  desire  to 
be  able  to  believe.  Presently,  as  he  stood  and  wrestled 
with  himself,  his  scientific  training  and  cast  of  mind 


A  WORLD  GROWN  STRANGE        43 

came  to  his  help.  It  was  legitimate  to  form  a  hypo- 
thesis, provided  that  it  accounted  for  all  the  facts  and 
made  no  more  assumptions  than  were  necessary  in 
order  to  do  so.  Illuminated  by  this  thought,  he  took 
a  few  steps  back  to  his  crevice,  sat  down,  grasped  his 
jaw  firmly  between  his  hands,  and  began  to  enquire 
what  hypothesis  would  be  most  suitable.  That  of  an 
hallucination  he  immediately  dismissed.  It  might  be 
the  true  explanation ;  but  as  a  working  basis  it  led  no- 
where and  required  no  thought.  If  he  was  living 
amid  illusory  shows  the  country  round  him  might 
change  at  any  moment  to  a  desert  or  an  ice-floe  .  .  ., 
or  he  might  find  himself  pursued  by  snakes  with  three 
heads. 

Well.  .  .  .  The  alternative  theory  assumed  that 
the  spot  on  which  he  now  sat  was  the  same  which  had 
formerly  been  occupied  by  Trehanoc's  warehouse.  His 
observations  underground  prior  to  his  delivery,  the 
shape  of  the  depression,  and  the  flag-stone  where  Lime 
Court  should  have  been,  all  supported  this  assumption. 
In  that  case  it  followed  irrefragably  that  he  could  not 
have  been  knocked  on  the  head  on  the  previous  day. 
He  must  have  been  in  that  grave,  covered  by  the  table, 
and  the  rubble,  and  the  turf  for  a  considerable  time. 
It  therefore  remained  only  to  estimate  a  period  suf- 
ficient for  the  changes  he  now  observed  to  have  taken 
place. 

It  was  perhaps  just  as  well  that  Jeremy  had  steadied 
his  mind  by  exercising  it  in  a  mode  of  thought  to 
which  it  was  accustomed:  for  when  he  reached  this 
point  and  looked  round  enquiringly  at  the  material 
evidence  his  head  began  to  whirl  again.  There  was, 
in  particular,  a  young  poplar,  about  ten  or  twelve  feet 
high,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  hollow.     .    .    . 


44        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

Jeremy  rose,  went  to  it,  and  slapped  the  bole  reflect- 
ively. It  was  still  young  enough  to  reply  by  a  more 
agitated  rustling  of  its  leaves.  Here  was  the  problem 
compactly  put.  What  was  the  shortest  possible  time 
in  which  the  tree  could  have  attained  this  growth? 

If  Jeremy  knew  that  he  would  also  indisputably 
know  the  shortest  possible  time  he  could  have  been 
underground.  It  was  true  that  his  estimate  might 
still  be  too  small  by  many  years.  He  suspected  that 
most  of  the  much  taller  trees  he  could  see  round  him 
at  a  greater  distance  must  have  been  sown  since  the 
change ;  but  still  with  the  poplar  he  would  have  reached 
a  firm  minimum  basis.  Unfortunately,  Jeremy  did 
not  know  the  answer  to  the  question.  He  was  not  a 
botanist,  but  a  physicist,  and  if  he  had  ever  known 
the  rate  at  which  a  poplar  grows,  he  had  forgotten  it. 
It  could  hardly  be  less  than  ten  or  fifteen  years.  .  .  . 
But  if  it  was  fifteen,  what  then?  And  if  he  could  have 
lain  entombed  for  fifteen  years,  why  not  for  fifty? 
why  not  for  five  hundred  ?  And  the  turf  ?  How  long 
would  it  be  before  the  ruins  of  a  house  were  covered 
with  thick  turf?  That  could  hardly  happen  in  fifteen 
years,  even  if  the  ruins  were  left  quite  undisturbed. 
.  .  .  And  why  had  it  been  left  undisturbed  in  what 
used  to  be  a  busy  quarter  of  London?  (The  questions 
thronged  now,  innumerable  and  irrepressible.)  What 
had  been  going  on  while  he  had  been  underground? 
Were  any  living  men  still  left?  As  he  asked  the  last 
question  it  was  answered.  In  the  distance  a  couple  of 
figures  walked  leisurely  across  the  meadows  to  one  of 
the  sheds  which  Jeremy  had  vaguely  descried,  fumbled 
with  the  door  and  went  in.  They  were  far  too  far  off 
for  Jeremy  to  see  what  manner  of  men  they  were;  but 
were  they  never  so  gentle,  never  so  kindly,  he  feared 


A  WORLD  GROWN  STRANGE        45 

them.  He  crouched  lower  down  by  the  entrance  to 
his  crevice,  and  for  the  second  time  that  morning  had 
half  a  mind  to  get  back  into  it,  as  though  it  were  a 
magic  car  that  could  transport  him  whence  he  had 
come. 

The  sun  rose  higher  and  began  to  grow  hot,  and 
the  dew  dried  swiftly  off  the  grass  and  the  leaves. 
Very  strangely  sleep  descended  on  Jeremy,  not  vio- 
lently as  before,  but  soft  and  unnoticed,  as  though 
some  superior  power,  seeing  his  mind  reach  the  limits 
of  conjecture,  had  gently  thrown  it  out  of  action.    Be- 
fore he  even  knew  that  he  was  drowsy  he  had  col- 
lapsed on  the  soft  turf,  his  head  on  the  little  mound 
which  hid  his  table  top,  and  there  he  slept  for  two  or 
three  hours,  careless  and  defenseless  in  a  novel  and 
possibly  hostile  world.    When  he  woke  he  found  that 
in  sleep  his  main  perplexity  had  been  resolved.     He 
now  believed  without  difficulty  that  he  had  been  car- 
ried in  a  trance  out  of  his  own  time,  how  far  he  did 
not  know,  and  the  admission  of  the  fact  gave  him  a 
curious  tranquillity  and  courage  to  face  whatever  the 
consequences  might  be.     It  did  not,  however,  alter  the 
ineluctable  truth  that  he  was  very  hungry,  and  this 
truth  made  it  plain  to  him  that  he  must  take  up  the 
business  of  living,  and  run  even  the  risk  of  meeting 
the  strange  people  from  whom  he  instinctively  shrank. 
He  therefore  stood  up  with  a  gesture  of  resolution, 
and  determined  to  discover,  if  he  could,  the  trace  of 
Whitechapel  High  Street,  and  to  follow  it  in  the  direc- 
tion of  what  had  once  been  London.     He  remembered 
having  spent  a  toilsome  morning  in  the  South  Downs 
following  the  track  of  an  old  Roman  road,  and  he 
judged  that  this  ought  not  to  be  much  more  difficult. 
He  had  a  strange  repugnance  to  throwing  himself  on 


46        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

the  charity  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  new  Whitechapel, 
and  an  equally  strange  desire  to  reach  the  ruins  of 
Holborn,  which  had  once  been  his  home. 

When  he  had  made  this  resolution  he  went  again 
into  the  ghost  of  Lime  Court,  took  three  steps  down 
it,  and  turned  to  the  left  into  what  he  hoped  would 
be  the  side  street  leading  to  the  main  road.  His  shot 
was  a  lucky  one.  Bank^  of  grass  here  and  there, 
mounds  crested  with  bramble,  and  at  one  point  a  heap 
of  moldering  brickwork,  pointed  out  his  road,  and 
there  was  actually  a  little  ribbon  of  a  foot-path  run- 
ning down  the  middle  of  it.  Jeremy  moved  on  slowly, 
feeling  unpleasantly  alone  in  the  wide  silent  morning, 
and  watching  carefully  for  a  sign  of  the  great  street 
along  which  the  trams  used  to  run. 

The  end  of  the  path  which  he  was  following  was 
marked  by  a  grove  of  young  trees,  surrounded  by 
bushes;  and  beyond  this,  Jeremy  conjectured,  he  would 
most  likely  find  the  traces  of  what  he  sought.  He  ap- 
proached this  point  cautiously,  and  when  the  path 
dipped  down  into  the  grove  he  slipped  along  it  as 
noiselessly  as  he  could.  When  it  emerged  again  he 
started  back  with  a  suppressed  cry.  Whitechapel  High 
Street  was  not  hard  to  find,  for  it  was  still  in  being. 
Here,  cutting  the  path  at  right  angles,  was  a  road — 
one  of  the  worst  he  had  ever  seen,  but  a  road  never- 
theless. He  walked  out  into  the  middle  of  it,  stared 
right  and  left,  and  was  satisfied.  Its  curve  was  such 
that  with  the  smallest  effort  he  could  restore  it  in  his 
mind  to  what  it  had  been.  On  the  side  from  which 
he  came  the  banks  and  irregularities,  which  were  all 
that  was  left  of  the  houses,  stretched  brokenly  out  of 
sight.  On  the  other  side  the  rubble  seemed  for  the 
most  part  to  have  been  cleared,  and  some  of  it  had 


A  WORLD  GROWN  STRANGE        47 

been  used  to  make  a  low  continuous  fence,  which  was 
now  grass-grown,  though  ends  of  brick  and  stone 
pushed  out  of  the  green  here  and  there.  Beyond  it 
cows  were  grazing,  and  the  ground  fell  gently  down 
to  a  belt  of  woods,  which  shut  off  the  view. 

Jeremy  turned  his  attention  again  to  the  road  itself. 
To  a  man  who  recollected  the  roads  round  Ypres  and 
on  the  Somme,  it  had  no  new  horrors  to  offer,  but  to 
a  man  who  had  put  these  memories  behind  him  and 
who  had,  for  all  practical  purposes,  walked  only  yes- 
terday through  the  streets  of  London,  it  was  a  sur- 
prising sight.  Water  lay  on  it  in  pools,  though  the  soil 
at  its  side  was  comparatively  dry.  The  ruts  were  six 
or  seven  inches  deep  and  made  a  network  over  the 
whole  surface,  which,  between  them,  was  covered  with 
grass  and  weeds.  Immediately  in  front  of  Jeremy 
there  was  a  small  pit  deeper  than  the  ruts,  and  filled  at 
the  bottom  with  loose  stones.  It  was  below  the  worst 
of  farm  tracks,  but  it  was  too  wide  for  that,  and  besides, 
Jeremy  could  not  rid  his  vision  of  the  great  ghostly 
trams  that  flitted  through  it. 

But,  bad  as  it  was,  it  meant  life,  and  even  appar- 
ently a  degree  of  civilization.  And  Jeremy  felt  again 
an  unconquerable  aversion  from  presenting  himself 
to  the  strange  people  who  had  inherited  the  earth  of 
his  other  life.  A  road,  to  a  man  who  comes  sud- 
denly on  it  out  of  open  country,  is  always  mutely  and 
strangely  a  witness  of  the  presence  of  other  men. 
This  unspeakable  track,  more  than  the  path  down  which 
he  had  just  walked,  more  even  than  the  figures  he  had 
seen  in  the  distance,  filled  him  with  a  dread  of  the  ex- 
planations he  would  have  to  make  to  the  first  chance 
comer  he  met.  His  appearance  would  no  doubt  be 
suspicious  to  them,  and  his  story  would  be  more  sus- 


48        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

picious  still.  Either  they  would  not  have  the  intelli- 
gence to  understand  it  or,  understanding,  would  not 
credit  it.  Jeremy  tried  to  imagine  his  own  feelings 
supposing  that  he  had  met,  say,  somewhere  on  the 
slopes  of  Leith  Hill,  a  person  in  archaic  costume  who 
affirmed  that  he  had  been  buried  for  a  century  or  so 
and  desired  assistance.  Jeremy  could  think  of  no 
method  by  which  his  tale  could  be  made  to  sound  more 
probable.  He  therefore,  making  excuses  to  himself, 
shrank  back  into  the  grove,  and  took  shelter  behind  a 
bush,  in  the  hope,  as  he  put  it,  of  thinking  of  some 
likely  mendacity  to  serve  instead  of  the  truth.  When 
he  was  settled  there  he  broke  off  a  young  trailer  of 
the  hedge  rose,  peeled  it,  and  ate  it.  It  was  neither 
satisfying  nor  nourishing,  but  it  had  been  one  of  the 
inexpensive  delights  of  his  childhood,  and  it  was 
something. 

He  was  just  consuming  this  dainty  when  a  curious 
rattling  and  clanking  round  the  curve  of  the  road 
struck  his  ear.  It  rapidly  approached,  and  he  started 
forward  to  get  a  view  through  the  leaves  of  his  bush. 
To  his  astonishment  he  saw  a  young  man  propelling 
a  bicycle  of  uncouth  appearance,  which  leapt  uncon- 
trollably on  the  broken  road,  and  threatened  to  throw 
its  rider  at  every  yard  of  progress.  He  peered  at  it 
as  closely  as  he  could,  and  had  just  decided  that  its 
odd  look  came  from  an  unwieldy  frame  and  most  un- 
usual tires  when,  after  a  last  alarming  stagger,  its 
front  wheel  shot  into  a  rut  and  its  rider  was  deposited 
within  a  yard  or  two  of  Jeremy's  feet. 

Jeremy  had  then  an  opportunity  of  inspecting  both 
at  his  leisure,  and  hardly  knew  which  ought  to  en- 
gage his  attention  first.  The  machine  was  sufficiently 
remarkable,  and  reminded  him  of  nothing  so  much 


A  WORLD  GROWN  STRANGE         49 

as  of  some  which  he  had  seen  in  the  occupied  territories 
of  Germany  at  the  end  of  the  war.  Its  frame  was 
exceedingly  heavy,  as  were  all  the  working  parts  which 
could  be  seen;  and  it  was  covered,  not  with  enamel, 
but  with  a  sort  of  coarse  paint.  The  spokes  of  the 
wheels  were  half  the  size  of  a  man's  little  finger,  and 
the  rims  were  of  thick  wood,  with  springs  in  the  place 
of  tires.  The  rider,  when  he  had  wearily  picked  him- 
self up  and  dusted  his  garments  just  under  Jeremy's 
staring  eyes,  was  by  no  means  so  unexpected.  The 
dress,  from  which  he  was  still  brushing  the  dust  witl> 
reluctant  fingers,  consisted  of  a  short  brown  coat  like 
a  blazer,  brown  breeches,  and  leather  leggings,  and  on 
his  head  he  wore  a  wide-brimmed  brown  soft  hat.  His 
shirt  was  open  at  the  throat,  but  below  the  opening 
hung  a  loose  and  voluminous  tie  of  green  linen.  His 
face,  on  which  sat  a  plainly  unwonted  expression  of 
annoyance,  was  mild,  candid,  and  friendly.  His  voice, 
when  he  spoke,  was  soft  and  pleasant,  and  his  accent 
had  a  strange  rich  burr  in  it,  which  vaguely  reminded 
Jeremy  of  something  he  had  heard  before  and  could 
not  quite  name  .  .  .  something,  it  seemed,  almost 
grotesque  in  this  connection.  .  .  . 

"I  never,"  said  the  young  m^n,  solemnly  but  with- 
out rancor,  to  the  inattentive  universe,  "I  never  will 
mount  one  of  those  devices  again." 


Jeremy  had  ample  time  to  be  certain  of  these  de- 
tails while  the  young  man  stood  as  it  were  for  inspec- 
tion. When  he  had  dusted  himself  thoroughly  and  had 
looked  three  or  four  times  round  him  and  up  into  the 
sky,  apparently  to  make  sure  that  no  celestial  chariot 


so        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

was  coming  to  rescue  him,  he  dragged  the  bicycle  from 
the  middle  of  the  road  and  began  to  examine  it.  First 
of  all  he  tried  to  wheel  it  a  pace  or  two,  and  when  it 
refused  to  advance  he  discovered  with  a  gesture  of 
surprise  that  the  chain  was  off.  He  slowly  lowered 
the  whole  machine  on  to  the  grass  by  the  roadside  and 
squatted  down  to  adjust  the  chain.  After  several 
fruitless  attempts  a  renewed  expression  of  annoyance 
crossed  his  tranquil  features,  and  he  sat  back  on  his 
heels  with  a  sigh. 

Jeremy  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Dearer  to  him  even 
than  his  European  reputation  for  research  into  the 
Viscosity  of  Liquids  was  the  reputation  he  had  among 
his  friends  as  a  useful  man  for  small  mechanical  jobs. 
He  would  soon  have  to  introduce  himself  to  one  or  an- 
other of  what  he  vaguely  supposed  to  be  his  descend- 
ants. This  young  man  had  an  unusually  calm  and 
friendly  appearance,  and  it  was  not  unlikely  that 
Jeremy  m-ight  be  able  to  help  him  in  his  trouble.  He 
therefore  came  out  of  his  hiding  place,  saying  brusque- 
ly.    "Let  me  see  if  I  can  do  anything." 

The  young  man  did  not  start  up  in  fear  or  even 
speak.  He  merely  looked  slightly  surprised  and 
yielded  the  bicycle  without  protest  into  Jeremy's  hands. 
Jeremy  turned  it  over  and  peered  into  it  with  the  silent 
absorbed  competence  of  a  mechanic.  Presently  he 
looked  up  and  made  a  brief  demand  for  a  spanner. 
The  young  man,  still  mutely,  replied  with  a  restrained 
but  negative  movement  of  his  hands.  Jeremy,  frown- 
ing, ran  through  his  own  pockets,  and  produced  a 
metal  fountain  pen  holder,  with  which  in  a  moment 
he  levered  the  incredibly  clumsy  chain  back  into  place. 
Then  he  raised  the  machine  and  wheeled  it  a  few 
yards,  showing  the  chain  in  perfect  action.     But  the 


A  WORLD  GROWN  STRANGE         51 

front  wheel  perceptibly  limped.  Jeremy  dropped  on 
one  knee  and  looked  at  it  with  an  acute  eye. 

"No  good,"  he  pronounced  at  last,  "it's  buckled. 
You  won't  be  able  to  ride  it,  but  at  least  you  can 
wheel  it."  And  he  solemnly  handed  the  machine  back 
to  its  owner. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  the  young  man  gently. 
Jeremy  could  still  hear  that  odd,  pleasant  burr  in  his 
voice.  And  then  he  enquired  with  a  little  hesitation, 
"Are  you  a  blacksmith?" 

"Good  Heavens,  no!"  Jeremy  cried.     "Why " 

The  young  man  appeared  to  choose  his  words  care- 
fully. "I'm  sorry.  You  see,  you  know  all  about  the 
bicycle,  and  .  .  .  and  ...  I  couldn't  quite  see  what 
your  clothes  were.  .  .  ."  He  slurred  over  the  last 
remark,  perhaps  feeling  it  to  be  ill-mannered,  and 
went  on  hastily :  "I  asked  because  in  the  village  I've 
come  from,  just  a  couple  of  miles  down  the  road,  the 
blacksmith  is  dead  and  .  .  ."  He  paused  and  looked 
at  Jeremy  expectantly, 

Jeremy  on  his  side  realized  that  the  moment  had 
come  when  he  must  either  tell  his  amazing  story  or 
deliberately  shirk  it.  But  while  he  had  been  bending 
over  the  bicycle  a  likely  substitute  had  occurred  to  him, 
a  substitute  which,  however,  he  would  have  hesitated 
to  offer  to  anyone  less  intelligent  and  kindly  in  ap- 
pearance than  his  new  acquaintance.  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  decided  on  shirking,  or,  as  he  excused 
it  to  himself,  on  feeling  his  way  slowly. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  with  an  accent  of  dull 
despair.  "I  don't  know  who  or  what  I  am.  I  think 
I  must  have  lost  my  memory." 

The  young  man  gave  a  sympathetic  exclamation. 
"Lost  your  memory?"  he  cried.     "Then,"  he  went  on, 


52        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

his  face  brightening,  "perhaps  you  are  a  blacksmith. 
I  can  tell  you  they  want  one  very  badly  over 
there  .  .  ."  But  he  caught  himself  up,  and  added, 
"Perhaps  not.  I  suppose  you  can't  tell  what  you  might 
have  been."  He  ceased,  and  regarded  Jeremy  with 
benevolent  interest. 

"I  can't,"  Jeremy  said  earnestly.  "I  don't  know 
where  I  came  from,  or  what  I  am,  or  where  I  am.  I 
don't  even  know  what  year  this  is.  I  can  remember 
nothing." 

"That's  bad,"  the  young  man  commented  with  mad- 
dening deliberation.  "I  can  tell  you  where  you  are, 
at  any  rate.  This  is  called  Whitechapel  Meadows — 
just  outside  London,  you  know.  Does  that  suggest 
anything  to  you?" 

"Nothing  .  .  .  nothing  ...  I  woke  up  just  over 
there" — he  swung  his  arm  vaguely  in  the  direction  of 
the  ruins  of  the  warehouse — "and  that's  all  I  know." 
He  suppressed  an  urgent  desire  to  emphasize  again 
his  ignorance  of  what  year  it  was.  Something  told 
him  that  a  man  who  had  just  lost  his  memory  would 
be  concerned  with  more  immediate  problems. 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man  pleasantly  at  last,  "do 
you  think  you  came  from  London?  If  you  do,  you'd 
better  let  me  take  you  there  and  see  you  safe  in  one 
of  the  monastery  hospitals  or  something  of  that  sort. 
Then  perhaps  your  family  would  find  you." 

"I  think  so."  Jeremy  was  uncertain  whether  this 
would  be  a  step  in  the  right  direction.  "I  seem  to 
remember.  ...  I  don't  know.  .  .  ."  He  paused, 
feeling  that  he  could  not  have  imagined  a  situation  so 
difficult.  He  had  read  a  number  of  books  in  which 
men  had  been  projected  from  their  own  times  into  the 
future,  but,  by  one  lucky  chance  or  another,  none  of 


A  WORLD  GROWN  STRANGE         53 

them  had  any  trouble  in  establishing  himself  as  the 
immediate  center  of  interest.  Yet  he  supposed  it 
would  be  more  natural  for  such  an  adventurer  to  be 
treated  as  he  was  going  to  be  treated — that  is  to  say 
as  a  mental  case.  It  would  be  tragically  absurd  if  he 
in  his  unique  position  were  to  be  immured  in  a  mad- 
house, regarded  as  a  man  possessed  by  incurable  de- 
lusions, when  he  might  be  deriving  some  consolation 
for  his  extraordinary  fate  in  seeing  how  the  world  had 
changed,  in  seeing,  among  other  things,  what  was  the 
current  theory  of  the  Viscosity  of  Liquids,  and  whether 
his  own  name  was  remembered  among  the  early  investi- 
gators into  that  fascinating  question. 

While  he  still  hesitated  his  companion  went  on  in  a 
soothing  tone,  "That  will  be  much  the  best  way.  Come 
with  me  if  you  think  you're  well  enough  to  walk." 

"Oh,  yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  ."  distractedly.  And  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  his  hunger  and  his  increasing  bewil- 
derment aside,  Jeremy  had  never  felt  so  well  or  so 
strong  in  his  Ufe  before.  He  was  even  a  little  afraid 
that  the  activity  of  his  manner  might  belie  the  sup- 
posed derangement  of  his  mind.  He  therefore  at- 
tempted to  assume  a  somewhat  depressed  demeanor  as 
he  followed  his  new  friend  along  the  road. 

The  young  man  was  evidently  either  by  nature  not 
loquacious,  or  else  convinced  that  it  would  be  unwise 
to  excite  Jeremy  by  much  conversation — perhaps  both. 
As  they  went  along  he  gave  most  of  his  attention  to 
the  conduct  of  his  bicycle,  and  only  threw  over  his 
shoulder  now  and  again  a  kindly  "Do  you  remember 
that?"  or  "Does  that  remind  you  of  anything?"  as 
they  passed  what  would  apparently  be  landmarks  fa- 
miliar to  any  Londoner  in  the  habit  of  using  that  road. 

But  all  were  equally  strange  to  Jeremy,  and  he  gazed 


'J4        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

round  him  keenly  to  guess  if  he  could  what  sort  of 
people  they  were  among  whom  he  had  fallen.  Clearly, 
if  he  were  to  judge  by  the  man  who  was  walking  at 
his  side,  they  were  not  barbarians;  and  yet  everywhere 
the  countryside  showed  evidence  of  decay,  which  totally 
defeated  all  the  expectations  of  the  prophets  of  his 
own  time.  As  they  drew  closer  to  London,  which  was 
still  hidden  from  them  by  belts  of  trees,  the  broken 
meadows  of  Whitechapel  gave  place  to  cleared  plots 
of  garden,  and  here  and  there  among  them  stood  rude 
hovels,  huts  that  no  decent  district  council  would  have 
allowed  to  be  erected.  Jeremy,  gazing  at  them  as 
closely  as  he  could  without  exciting  the  attention  of  his 
guide,  thought  that  many  of  them  seemed  to  have 
been  built  by  piling  roughly  together  fragments  of 
other  buildings.  Presently  a  gang  of  laborers  going 
out  to  the  fields  passed  them,  saluting  Jeremy  with  a 
curious  stare,  and  his  companion,  when  they  were 
able  to  transfer  their  gaze  to  him,  with  touched  caps, 
whether  because  they  knew  him  or  merely  out  of  re- 
spect for  his  appearance  Jeremy  could  not  decide. 
But  it  was  surprising  how  familiar  their  look  was. 
They  were  what  Jeremy  had  encountered  many  hun- 
dreds of  times  in  country  lanes  and  the  bars  of  country 
inns;  and  it  was  only  vaguely  and  as  it  were  with  the 
back  of  his  consciousness  that  he  perceived  their  ruder 
dress  and  the  greater  respectfulness  of  their  manner. 
The  transition  from  the  fields  to  the  town  was 
abrupt.  They  reached  and  passed  a  little  wood  which 
bordered  both  sides  of  the  road,  and  immediately  be- 
yond it  the  first  street  began.  The  houses  were  almost 
all  of  Jeremy's  own  day  or  before  it,  but  though  they 
were  inhabited  they  were  heavy  with  age,  sagging 
and  hanging  in  different  directions  in  a  manner  which 


A  WORLD  GROWN  STRANGE         55 

betokened  long  neglect.  At  the  end  of  the  street  a 
knot  of  loiterers  stood.  Behind  them  the  street  was 
busy  with  foot  passengers,  and  Jeremy  stared  along 
it  to  a  tangle  of  houses,  some  old  and  some  new,  but 
nearly  all  wearing  the  same  strange  air  of  instability 
and  imminent  collapse.  Their  appearance  affected  him, 
as  one  is  affected  when  one  wakes  in  an  unfamiliar 
room,  sleepily  expecting  to  see  accustomed  things  and 
grows  dizzy  in  substituting  the  real  picture  for  the 
imagined.     He  caught  his  breath  and  paused. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  young  man,  in- 
stantly solicitous. 

"Nothing,"  Jeremy  replied,  "only  feel  faint  .  .  . 
must  rest  a  minute."  He  leant  against  a  mass  of 
ruined  and  lichened  brickwork,  breathing  shortly  and 
jerkily. 

"Here,"  cried  his  companion,  dropping  the  bicycle, 
"sit  down  till  you  feel  better."  And,  exerting  an  un- 
suspected strength,  he  took  Jeremy  bodily  in  his  arms 
and  lowered  him  gently  till  he  reclined  on  the  grass. 
Jeremy  looked  up,  grateful  for  his  kindness,  which  was 
reassuring,  though  he  knew  that  it  did  not  spring  from 
sympathy  with  his  real  perplexities.  But  he  immediate- 
ly dropped  his  eyes  and  clenched  his  hands  while  he 
strove  to  master  his  doubts.  Would  it  not  perhaps  be 
the  wiser  plan  to  confess  his  position  to  this  young 
man  and  take  the  risk  of  being  thought  a  madman? 
And  a  moment's  reflection  convinced  him  that  he 
would  never  have  a  better  opportunity.  The  face  that 
now  leant  anxiously  above  him  was  not  perhaps  so 
alert  or  active  in  appearance  as  he  could  have  wished ; 
but  it  was  extraordinarily  friendly  and  trustworthy. 
If  the  young  man  could  be  made  to  believe  in  Jeremy's 
story,  he  would  do  all  that  was  possible  to  help  him. 


56        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

Jeremy  made  his  decision  with  a  leap,  and  looking  up 
again  said  thickly: 

"I  say.  ...  I  didn't  tell  you  the  truth  just  now." 

"What?  Don't  talk.  You'll  feel  better  in  a  mo- 
ment." 

"No,  I  must,"  Jeremy  insisted.  "I'm  all  right;  I 
haven't  lost  my  memory.  I  wish  to  God  I  had  lost 
it." 

The  young  man  showed  for  the  first  time  serious 
symptoms  of  surprise  and  alarm.  "What,"  he  began, 
"are  you  a — " 

Jeremy  silenced  him  with  an  imperative  wave  of  the 
hand.  "Let  me  go  on,"  he  said  feverishly,  "you  mustn't 
interrupt  me.  It's  difficult  enough  to  say,  anyway. 
Listen." 

Then,  brokenly,  he  told  his  story  in  a  passion  of 
eagerness  to  be  as  brief  as  he  could,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  make  it  credible  by  the  mere  force  of  his  will. 
When  he  began  to  speak  he  was  looking  at  the  ground, 
but  as  he  reached  the  crucial  points  he  glanced  up  to 
see  the  listener's  expression,  and  he  ended  with  his 
gaze  fixed  directly,  appealingly,  on  the  young  man's 
eyes.  But  the  first  words  in  response  made  him  break 
into  a  fit  of  hysterical  laughter. 

"Good  heavens !"  the  young  man  cried  in  accents  of 
obvious  relief.  "Do  you  know  what  I  was  thinking? 
Why,  I  more  than  half  thought  you  were  going  to  say 
that  you  were  a  criminal  or  a  runaway !" 

Jeremy  pulled  himself  together  with  a  jerk,  and 
asked  breathlessly,  "What  year  is  this?  For  God's 
sake  tell  me  what  year  it  is !" 

"The  year  of  Our  Lord  two  thousand  and  seventy- 
four,"  the  young  man  answered,  and  then  suddenly 
realizing  the  significance  of  what  he  had  said,  he  put 


A  WORLD  GROWN  STRANGE        57 

his  hand  on  Jeremy's  shoulder,  and  added  :  "All  right, 
man,  all  right.    Be  calm." 

"I'm  all  right,"  Jeremy  muttered,  putting  his  hands 
on  the  ground  to  steady  himself,  "only  it's  rather  a 
shock — to  hear  it — "  For,  strangely,  though  he  had 
admitted  in  his  thoughts  the  possibility  of  even  greater 
periods  than  this,  the  concrete  naming  of  the  figures 
struck  him  harder  than  anything  that  day  since  the 
moment  in  which  he  had  expected  to  see  houses  and 
had  seen  only  empty  meadows.  Now  when  he  closed 
his  eyes  his  mind  at  once  sank  in  a  whirlpool  of  vague 
but  powerful  emotions.  In  this  darkness  he  perceived 
that  he  had  been  washed  up  by  fate  on  a  foreign  shore, 
more  than  a  century  and  a  half  out  of  his  own  genera- 
tion, in  a  world  of  which  he  was  ignorant,  and  which 
had  no  place  for  him,  that  his  friends  were  all  long 
dead  and  forgotten.  .  .  .  When  his  mind  emerged 
from  this  eclipse,  he  found  that  his  cheeks  were  wet 
with  tears  and  that  he  was  laughing  feebly.  All  the 
strength  and  activity  were  gone  out  of  him;  and  he 
gazed  up  at  his  companion  helplessly,  feeling  as  de- 
pendent on  him  as  a  young  child  on  its  parent. 

"What  shall  we  do  now?"  he  asked  in  a  toneless 
voice. 

But  the  young  man  was  turning  his  bicycle  around 
again.  "If  you  feel  well  enough,"  he  answered  gently, 
"I  want  you  to  come  back  and  show  me  the  place  where 
you  were  hidden.  You  know  ...  I  don't  doubt  you. 
I  honestly  don't;  but  it's  a  strange  story,  and  perhaps 
it  would  be  better  for  you  if  I  were  to  look  at  the 
place  before  any  one  disturbs  it.  So,  if  you're  well 
enough  .  .  .  ?"  Jeremy  nodded  consent,  grateful  for 
the  kindness  of  his  friend's  voice,  and  went  with  him. 

The  way  back  to  the  little  grove  where  they  had 


-Q        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

first  met  seemed  much  longer  to  Jeremy  as  he  retraced 
it  with  feet  that  had  begun  to  drag  and  back  that 
had  begun  to  ache.  When  they  reached  it,  the  young 
man  hid  his  bicycle  among  the  bushes,  and  asked 
Jeremy  to  lead  him.  At  the  edge  of  the  crevice  he 
paused,  and  looked  down  thoughtfully,  rubbing  his 
chin  with  one  finger, 

"It  is  just  as  you  described  it,"  he  murmured.  "I 
can  see  the  tabletop.  Did  you  look  inside  when  you 
had  got  out  ?"  It  had  not  occurred  to  Jeremy,  and  he 
admitted  it.  "Never  mind,"  the  young  man  went  on, 
"we'll  do  that  in  a  moment."  Then  he  made  Jeremy 
explain  to  him  how  the  warehouse  had  stood,  where 
Lime  Court  had  been,  and  how  it  fell  into  the  side* 
street.  He  paced  the  ground  which  was  indicated  to 
him  with  serious  absorbed  face,  and  said  at  last :  "You 
understand  that  I  haven't  doubted  what  you  told  me. 
I  felt  that  you  were  speaking  the  truth.  But  you 
might  have  been  deluded,  and  it  was  as  much  for  your 
own   sake  .   .   ." 

Jeremy  interrupted  him  eagerly.  "Couldn't  you  get 
the  old  records,  or  an  old  map  of  London  that  would 
show  where  all  these  things  were?  That  would  help 
to  prove  the  truth  of  what  I  say." 

The  young  man  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  "I 
don't  suppose  I  could,"  he  answered  vaguely,  his  eyes 
straying  off  in  another  direction.  "I  never  heard  of 
^uch  things.  Now  for  this  .  .  ."  And  turning  to 
the  crevice  again  he  seized  the  tabletop  and  with  a 
vigorous  effort  wrenched  it  up.  As  he  did  so  a  rat 
ran  squeaking  from  underneath,  and  scampered  away 
across  the  grass.     Jeremy  started  back  bewildered. 

"You  had  a  pleasant  bedfellow,"  said  the  young 
man  in  his  grave  manner.     Jeremy  was  silent,  strug- 


A  WORLD  GROWN  STRANGE        59 

gling  with  something  in  his  memory  that  had  been 
overlaid  by  more  recent  concerns.  Was  it  possible 
that  he  was  not  alone  in  this  unfamiliar  generation? 
With  a  sudden  movement  he  jumped  down  into  the 
open  grave  and  began  to  search  in  the  loose  dust  at 
the  bottom.  The  next  moment  he  was  out  again, 
presenting  for  the  inspection  of  his  bewildered  com- 
panion an  oddly-shaped  glass  vessel.  •  aJ 
"This   is   it!"   he  cried,   his   face  white,   his  eyes 

blazing,  "I  told  you  I  came  to  see  an  experiment " 

Then  he  was  checked  by  the  perfect  blankness  of  the 
expression  that  met  him.  "Of  course,"  he  said  more 
slowly,  "if  you're  not  a  scientist,  perhaps  you  wouldn't 
know  what  this  is."  And  he  began  to  explain,  in  the 
simplest  words  he  could  find,  the  astonishing  theory 
that  had  just  leapt  up  fully  born  in  his  brain.  He 
guessed,  staggered  by  his  own  supposition,  that  Tre- 
hanoc's  ray  had  been  more  potent  than  even  the  dis- 
coverer had  suspected,  and  that  welling  softly  and  in- 
visibly from  the  once  excited  vacuum-tube  which  he 
held  in  his  hand,  it  had  preserved  him  and  the  rat 
together  in  a  state  of  suspended  animation  for  more 
than  a  century  and  a  half.  Then  with  the  rolling  of 
the  timbers  over  his  head  and  the  collapse  of  the  soft 
earth  which  had  gathered  on  them,  the  air  had  entered 
the  hermetically  sealed  chamber  and  brought  awaken- 
ing with  it. 

As  his  own  excitement  began  to  subside  he  was 
checked  again  by  the  absolute  lack  of  comprehension 
patent  in  his  companion's  face.  He  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence,  feeling  himself  all  astray.  Was 
this  ray  one  of  the  commonplaces  of  the  new  age? 
Was  it  his  surprise,  rather  than  the  cause  of  it,  which 
was  so  puzzling  to  his  friend  ?    The  whole  wodd  was 


6o        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

swimming  around  him,  and  ideas  began  to  lose  their 
connection.  But,  as  through  a  mist,  he  could  still 
see  the  young  man's  face,  and  hear  him  saying  seri- 
ously as  ever : 

*'I  do  not  understand  how  that  bottle  could  have 
kept  you  asleep  for  so  long,  nor  do  I  know  what  you 
mean  by  a  ray.  You  are  very  ill,  or  you  would  not 
try  to  explain  things  which  cannot  be  explained.  You 
do  not  know  any  more  than  I  what  special  grace  has 
preserved  you.  Many  strange  things  happened  in  the 
old  times  which  we  cannot  understand  to-day."  As 
he  spoke  he  crossed  himself  and  bowed  his  head. 
Jeremy  was  silenced  by  his  expression  of  devout  and 
final  certainty,  and  stifled  the  exclamation  that  rose  to 
his  lips. 


CHAPTER  IVj 

DISCOVERIES 


HOW  and  when  Jeremy's  second  unconsciousness 
overtook  him  he  did  not  know.  He  remembered 
stumbHng  after  his  friend  down  the  uneven  road  he 
had  now  begun  to  hate.  He  remembered  that  the 
heat  of  the  day  had  grown  intense,  that  his  own  dizzi- 
ness had  increased,  and  that  he  had  been  falling  wearily 
over  stones  and  from  one  rut  to  another.  He  had  a 
dim  recollection  of  entering  the  street  he  had  seen 
before,  and  of  noticing  the  odd  effect  produced  by 
twentieth-century  buildings  sagging  crazily  forward 
over  a  rough  cobbled  roadway.  But  he  did  not  re- 
member his  sudden  collapse,  or  how  his  friend  had 
secured  a  cart  and  anxiously  bundled  him  into  it.  He 
did  not  remember  the  jolting  journey  that  followed, 
as  speedy  as  the  streets  of  this  new  London  would 
allow. 

He  came  to  himself  in  a  bed  in  a  little,  bare,  white- 
washed room  through  the  windows  of  which  the  west- 
ering sun  was  throwing  a  last  golden  flood.  He  sat  up 
hastily,  and  saw  that  he  was  alone.  At  his  side  on  a 
small  table  stood  a  metal  dish  holding  a  thick  slice  of 
bread  and  some  leaves  of  lettuce;  and  by  the  dish  there 
was  a  mug  of  rudely  glazed  earthenware.  His  mouth 
was  dry  and  his  tongue  swollen;  and  he  investigated 

6l 


62        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

the  mug  first.  He  was  rewarded  by  a  draught  of  thin 
but,  as  he  then  thought,  dehcious  ale.  He  immediately 
set  to  on  the  bread  and  lettuce,  and  thought  of  nothing 
else  till  he  had  finished  it.  When  he  had  scraped  to- 
gether the  last  crumbs  and  his  first  ravenousness  had 
given  way  to  a  healthy  and  normal  hunger,  he  looked 
about  him  with  more  interest. 

The  room,  his  first  glance  told  him,  was  bare  even 
to  meanness.  It  held  nothing  but  the  bed  in  which  he 
lay,  the  table  and  a  large,  cumbrously-made  wooden 
chest  which  stood  in  the  further  corner.  The  walls,  as 
well  as  the  ceiling,  were  covered  with  a  coarse  white- 
wash which  was  flaking  here  and  there ;  and  there  was 
a  square  of  rough  matting  on  the  boards  of  the  floor. 
Jeremy,  quite  awake  and  alert  now,  wondered  whether, 
after  all,  he  had  not  been  taken  to  an  asylum,  perhaps — 
and  this  seemed  most  probable — to  the  infirmary  of  a 
workhouse.  The  sheets  on  the  bed  and  the  nightshirt 
in  which  he  found  himself,  clean  but  of  very  coarse 
linen,  seemed  to  support  this  theory.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  it  were  correct,  ought  he  not  to  be  in  a  ward 
with  the  other  patients?  And  was  it  usual  in  the 
workhouses  of  this  age  to  have  mugs  of  ale  by  the 
bedside  of  unconscious  men? 

Curiosity  soon  stirred  him  farther;  and  he  put  one 
foot  cautiously  to  the  ground.  He  was  reassured  at 
once  by  a  sensation  of  strength  and  health;  and  he 
slipped  out  of  bed  and  went  to  the  window.  Here 
he  met  with  another  surprise;  for  it  was  glazed  with 
small  leaded  panes  of  thick  and  muddy  glass,  such  as 
was  becoming  rare  in  his  own  time  even  in  the  re- 
motest and  most  primitive  parts  of  the  country.  And 
a  brief  examination  showed  that  the  window  was 
genuine,  not  merely  a  sheet  of  glass  cut  up  by  sham 


DISCOVERIES  63 

leads  to  give  a  false  appearance  of  antiquity.  Puz- 
zling a  little  over  this,  and  finding  that  he  could  not 
see  clearly  through  the  stains  and  whorls  in  the  glass, 
he  undid  the  window,  and  thrust  his  head  out.  Below 
him  stretched  spacious  gardens  with  lawns  and  shrub- 
beries, fading  in  the  distance  among  tall  trees,  through 
which  buildings  could  just  be  discerned. 

As  he  leant  out  he  could  hear  the  voices  of  persons 
hidden  somewhere  beneath ;  and  he  was  straining  for- 
ward to  catch  their  meaning  when  a  hand  fell  on  his 
shoulder.  He  looked  round  with  a  start,  and  saw 
his  friend  carrying  a  pile  of  clothes  over  one  arm, 
and  smiling  at  him  pleasantly. 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man,  "I'm  relieved  to  find 
you  awake  again.  Do  you  know  that  you've  lain  there 
since  before  noon,  and  that  it's  now  nearly  six  o'clock? 
I  began  to  think  that  you'd  fallen  into  another  trance." 

"Where  am  I  ?"  Jeremy  asked  bluntly. 

And  the  young  man  replied  with  simplicity:  "This 
is  the  Treasury.  You  know,  I'm  one  of  the  Speaker's 
Clerks."  And  then  seeing  Jeremy's  stare  of  bewilder- 
ment, he  went  on :  "Or  perhaps  you  don't  know.  We 
have  apartments  here  in  the  Treasury  during  our  term 
of  service,  and  dine  in  the  Great  Hall.  This  room 
belongs  to  another  of  the  Clerks.  Luckily  he's  away 
on  a  journey,  and  so  I've  been  able  to  borrow  it  for 
you.  And  that  reminds  me  that  though  you  told  me 
a  great  deal  about  yourself,  you  never  told  me  your 
name."  Jeremy  told  him.  "And  mine's  Roger  Vaile. 
Now  I  think  you  ought  to  get  dressed,  if  you  feel  strong 
enough." 

But  Jeremy's  bewilderment  was  by  no  means  dissi- 
pated. "The  Speaker?  The  Treasury?"  he  inquired 
disconnectedly. 


64        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

The  young  man  whose  name  was  Roger  Vaile 
laughed  in  a  good-humored  way.  "Didn't  you  have 
them  in  your  time?  It's  not  much  use  asking  fne,  I'm 
afraid.  I  know  so  Httle  about  the  old  times  that  I 
can't  tell  what  will  be  new  to  you,  and  what  you  know 
already.     But  you  must  know  who  the  Speaker  is?" 

"Yes  ...  I  suppose  so  .  .  .  the  Speaker  of  the 
House  of  Commons,"  Jeremy  began.     "But—: — " 

Roger  Vaile  looked  perplexed  in  his  turn.  "N-no — 
I  don't  know  .  .  .  perhaps  .  .  .  he's  .  .  .  oh,  he's 
the  ruler  of  the  country — like  a  king,  you  know." 

"But  why  is  he  called  the  Speaker?"  Jeremy  per- 
sisted. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  because  he  speaks  for  the  people, 
who  know  more  about  these  things  than  I  do.  Now 
That's  evident,  isn't  it?  But  I'll  find  some  one  for  you 
you'd  better  dress,"  he  concluded,  making  for  the 
door,  plainly  anxious  to  avoid  further  questions.  "Din- 
ner's sen/ed  at  half-past  six.  I'll  call  for  you."  He 
escaped,  but  returned  in  a  moment  to  say:  "By  the 
way,  I've  told  no  one  anything  about  you.  I've  only 
said  that  I'm  entertaining  a  friend  from  the  country." 

"Thanks  .  .  .  oh,  thanks,"  Jeremy  replied  hastily 
and  rather  foolishly,  looking  up  from  his  manipula- 
tion of  the  garments  which  Roger  had  disposed  on 
the  bed.  They  proved,  however,  on  examination,  to  be 
the  least  of  the  problems  at  that  moment  confusing  his 
mind.  They  were,  in  fact,  exceedingly  like  the  eve- 
ning dress  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  A  kind  of 
dinner-jacket  with  coarsely  woven  silk  on  the  lapels 
was  substituted  for  the  tail-coat,  and  the  shirt  was  made 
of  heavy,  unstarched  linen,  and  had  a  soft  collar  at- 
tached to  it.  The  socks  were  of  thick  and  heavy  silk; 
but  the  cloth  of  the  coat,  waistcoat  and  trousers,  which 


DISCOVERIES  65 

turned  out,  under  closer  inspection,  to  be  dark  purple 
instead  of  black,  was  as  soft  and  fine  as  could  be  de- 
sired. The  shoes  were  more  unusual.  They  were  of 
fine  leather,  long  and  pointed  and  intricately  adorned, 
and  their  color  was  a  rich  and  pleasing  green. 

Jeremy  had  no  trouble  in  dressing ;  but  when  he  had 
ifinished  Tie  was  made  a  little  uneasy  by  what  he  could 
see  of  the  result.  He  supposed,  however,  that  his 
costume  was  that  of  a  well-dressed  young  man  of  the 
period,  though  it  did  not  fit  him  at  all  points  as  he 
could  have  wished;  and  he  sat  down  on  the  bed  to 
wait  as  tranquilly  as  he  could  till  Roger  should  call 
for  him.  Tranquillity,  however,  was  not  to  be  had  for 
the  asking.  Too  many  questions  beset  his  mind;  and 
though  he  had  a  wealth  of  observations  on  which  to 
reflect  there  seemed  to  be  at  once  too  many  and  too 
few.  He  certainly  had  never  believed  that  the  Mil- 
lennium was  somewhere  just  around  the  corner,  waiting 
to  be  led  in  by  the  hand  of  Science.  But  he  had  held 
the  comfortable  belief  that  mankind  was  advancing 
in  conveniences  and  the  amenities  of  life  by  regular  and 
inevitable  degrees.  Yet  all  that  he  had  seen  so  far 
seemed  to  be  preparing  an  overthrow  of  this  supposi- 
tion no  less  direct  and  amazing  than  the  revelation  he 
had  received  when  he  looked  for  the  houses  of  White- 
chapel  and  found  that  they  were  no  longer  there.  The 
mere  fact  that  a  whole  quarter  of  London  had  been 
destroyed  and  had  never  been  rebuilt  was  in  itself 
significant.  The  condition  of  the  still  inhabited  houses 
which  he  had  seen  was  strange.  The  clothes  he  wore, 
the  sheets  on  his  bed,  the  glazing  of  his  window,  pointed 
to  an  unexpected  state  of  affairs.  And  Roger  Vaile's 
attitude  towards  the  scientific  theories  which  Jeremy 
had  so  guilelessly  spread  before  him  was  perhaps  the 


66        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

most  striking  phenomenon  of  all.  Jeremy  sought  vain- 
ly for  words  which  would  describe  the  impression  it 
had  made  on  him.  Could  a  savage  have  looked  other- 
wise if  you  had  explained  to  him  the  theory  of  atomic 
weights?  And  the  Speaker,  who  spoke  for  the  peo- 
ple .  ,  .  and  the  Treasury?  Jeremy  thought  suddenly, 
with  a  certain  ingratitude,  that  Roger's  easy  acceptance 
of  his  own  almost  impossible  story  had  something 
about  it  that  was  decidedly  queer. 

The  course  of  his  meditations  led  him  to  as  many 
blind  alleys  as  there  were  paths  to  be  followed;  and 
he  was  just  staring  down  the  eighth  or  ninth  when 
Roger  entered,  dressed  in  garments  closely  resembling 
those  he  had  given  to  Jeremy.  Jeremy  followed  his 
beckoning  finger  and  was  led  down  a  narrow  staircase, 
along  a  passage  and  into  a  hall  of  some  dimensions, 
which  was  lit  partly  by  the  sun  still  streaming  through 
the  windows,  partly  by  a  multitude  of  tall,  thick 
candles.  It  contained  three  tables,  two  of  which  were 
long  and  stood  in  the  body  of  the  hall.  The  third 
was  much  smaller  and  was  raised  on  a  dais  at  the 
end,  at  right  angles  to  the  others.  This  was  still 
unoccupied;  but  around  the  long  tables  sat  or  stood 
a  number  of  men  of  yary'mg  ages,  mostly  young,  talk- 
ing desultorily,  and  waiting.  These  were  also  dressed 
like  Jeremy;  but  some  of  them  had  been  more  adven- 
turous in  the  colors  of  their  jackets,  and  some  displayed 
modest  touches  of  lace  on  their  breasts  or  at  their 
wrists. 

Jeremy  was  still  staring  covertly  at  these  people  and 
finding,  a  little  to  his  surprise,  that  neither  their  cos- 
tume nor  his  own  looked  odd,  being  naturally  worn, 
when  a  trumpet  rang  out  metallically,  and  at  once 


DISCOVERIES  67 

all  the  lounging  men  sprang  to  their  feet  in  rigid  at- 
titudes. A  door  on  the  dais  was  thrown  open  by  a 
servant,  and  a  tall,  stooping  figure  walked  in. 

"The  Speaker,"  Roger  whispered  softly  in  Jeremy's 
ear.  Jeremy  craned  his  neck  to  see  the  ruler  of  Eng- 
land. He  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  large,  rather  fleshy 
face,  with  deep  folds,  discernible  in  spite  of  the  long 
white  beard  about  the  heavy,  drooping  mouth,  and  more 
than  a  touch  of  Jewish  traits  in  the  curve  of  the  nose, 
and  the  heaviness  of  the  eyelids.  As  the  Speaker 
walked  to  his  seat,  another  man,  shorter,  but  spare, 
and  more  erect,  with  lean  features  and  a  bearing  of 
almost  barbaric  pride,  which  was  accentuated  by  the 
dull  red  of  his  jacket,  followed  him  in. 

"That  damned  Canadian!"  Roger  muttered,  and 
Jeremy  staring  in  some  surprise  found  that  the  ex- 
clamation was  not  for  him.  Still  no  one  sat.  Even 
the  Speaker  and  his  guest  remained  standing  by  their 
chairs,  until  another  trumpet  sounded,  and  a  second 
door  on  the  dais  was  thrown  open.  Two  women  came 
through  it.  The  first  was  middle-aged  and  stout,  florid 
of  coloring,  and,  even  at  that  distance,  obviously  over- 
painted.  The  second,  whom  the  first  partially  hid, 
seemed  to  be  young,  and  to  move  with  a  carriage  as 
robust  and  distinguished  as  that  of  the  erect  Canadian. 
Jeremy  had  seen  no  more  than  this  when  his  gaze  was 
diverted  by  the  rising  of  a  priest  who  intoned  a  grace 
and  then  by  the  bustle  attendant  on  the  whole  com- 
pany sitting  down.  He  gathered  from  Roger's  whisper 
that  these  were  the  Speaker's  wife  and  daughter;  but 
after  dinner  had  begun,  he  could  not  clearly  see  the 
party  of  four  on  the  dais  because  of  the  glare  and  the 
flickering  of  the  candles  between  him  and  them. 


68        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 


Roger  Vaile  did  more  for  Jeremy  than  provide  him 
with  food  and  lodging.  He  was  also  at  the  pains  of 
finding  out  the  wisest  man  he  knew  to  answer  Jeremy's 
questions  and  resolve  his  doubts.  After  a  lengthy  meal 
of  huge  and  crudely  spiced  dishes  they  returned  to 
Roger's  own  room,  an  apartment  a  little  larger  than 
that  in  which  Jeremy  had  found  .himself,  but  not 
much  less  bare;  and  there  they  discovered,  sitting 
on  the  bed  and  waiting  for  them,  an  elderly  priest  in 
a  long  black  soutane,  with  a  golden  crucifix  at  his 
breast. 

He  rose  as  they  entered,  and  surveyed  Jeremy  with 
intense  curiosity,  Jeremy  returned  the  stare,  but 
rather  less  intently.  This,  he  found  with  little  interest, 
was  like  any  priest  of  any  age.  He  was  clean  shaven 
and  almost  bald,  with  pouched  and  drooping  cheeks, 
and  a  chin  that  multiplied  and  returned  to  unity  as 
he  talked  and  moved  his  head.  But  above  these  signs 
of  age  were  two  large  and  childlike  blue  eyes  which 
shone  on  Jeremy  with  something  like  greed  in  their 
eagerness. 

"This  is  the  man,"  Roger  said  briefly  to  the  priest, 
and  to  Jeremy  he  said :  "This  is  my  Uncle,  Father 
Henry  Dean.  He  is  writing  the  chronicle  of  the 
Speakers,  and  he  knows  more  about  the  old  times  than 
any  other  man  alive.'" 

The  priest  took  Jeremy's  hand  in  a  soft  clasp  with- 
out relaxing  his  eager  stare.  "There  are  few  men 
alive  who  are  older  than  I  am,"  he  murmured,  "but 
you  are  one  of  them,  if  my  nephew  has  told  me  the 
truth.     Yes — more  than  a  century  older," 


DISCOVERIES  69 

"I  don't  feel  it,"  Jeremy  answered  aimlessly. 

"No  ?  No.  That  is  miraculous.  Ah,  yes,  I  believe 
your  story.  I  know  well  that  the  world  is  full  of 
marvels.  Who  should  know  that  better  than  I  who 
have  spent  so  many  years  searching  the  wonderful 
past?    And  there  were  greater  marvels  in  those  days 

than  now.    Young  man "  he  stopped  and  chuckled 

with  a  touch  of  senility.  "Young  man,  you  will  be 
nearly  two  centuries  old." 

Jeremy  nodded  without  speaking. 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  old  man  went  on,  "so  many  strange 
things  happened  in  those  days  that  we  have  no  call  to 
be  amazed  at  you.  Why,  there  used  to  be  a  machine 
in  those  times  that  the  doctors  used  to  look  right 
through  men's  bodies." 

Jeremy  started  slightly.  "You  mean  the  Rontgen 
Rays?"  he  said. 

"A  wonderful  light,"  said  the  old  man  eagerly, 
"you  know  it,  you  have  seen  it?" 

"Why,  yes,"  Jeremy  turned  to  Roger.     "You  know 

that  vacuum-tube  I  showed  you "     But  the  old 

man  was  continuing  his  catalogue  of  wonders. 

"Men  used  to  cross  to  America  in  less  than  a  week. 
Yes — and  some  even  flew  over  in  aeroplanes  in  a  day." 

"Uncle,  uncle,"  Roger  remonstrated  gently,  "you 
mustn't  tell  fairy  tales  to  a  man  who  has  been  to  fairy- 
land.    He  knows  what  the  truth  is." 

"But  that  is  true,"  Jeremy  roused  himself  to  say; 
"it  was  done  several  times — not  regularly,  but  often." 
Roger  bestowed  on  him  a  glance  of  covert  doubt,  and 
the  priest  leant  forward  in  tremulous  gratitude. 

"I  knew  it,  I  knew  it!"  he  cried.  "Roger,  like  all 
the  world  to-day  you  are  too  ignorant.  You  do  not 
know " 


70        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

But  Jeremy  interrupted  again.  "But  have  you  aero- 
planes now?"  he  asked.     "Can  you  fly?" 

"Not  for  many  years  now,"  the  old  man  sighed, 
"Roger  has  never  seen  a  man  flying.  I  did  when  I 
was  very  young."  He  drew  a  deep  breath  and  re- 
garded Jeremy  almost  with  reverence.  "You  lived  in 
a  wonderful  time,"  he  said.  "Why,  you  were  alive 
in  the  time  of  the  great  artists,  when  that  was  made." 
He  turned,  and  indicated  with  a  devout  finger  a  little 
marble  statue  which  stood  on  the  mantelpiece  behind 
him.  Jeremy  followed  his  gesture,  and  noticed  for  the 
first  time  that  the  room  was  not  entirely  without  deco- 
ration. The  statue  to  which  his  gaze  was  directed 
represented  the  body  of  a  man  from  the  waist  upwards. 
The  anatomy  of  the  body  was  entirely  distorted,  the 
ribs  stood  out  like  ridgers,  and  one  arm,  which  was 
raised  over  the  head,  was  a  good  third  longer  than  the 
other. 

"Yes,"  Jeremy  said,  surveying  it  with  interest,  "per- 
haps I  did.  That  is  what  we  used  to  call  Futurist 
art." 

"They  were  masters  then,"  said  the  priest  with  a 
deep  expulsion  of  his  breath.  Jeremy's  eyes  wandered 
round  the  room  and  fell  on  a  picture,  plainl}^  a  litho- 
graph of  the  war-period,  which,  when  he  had  regarded 
it  long  enough,  resolved  itself  into  a  crane  lifting  a 
great  gun  into  a  railway  wagon.  But  it  was  drawn 
in  fierce  straight  lines  and  savage  angles,  with  shadows 
like  wedges,  making  a  bewildering  pattern  which  for 
a  moment  defeated  him.  He  dropped  his  eyes  from  it, 
and  again  looked  round  the  room.  This  time  his 
gaze  fell  on  the  bed,  which  was  wooden  and  obviously 
new.  The  flat  head  of  it  was  covered  with  rude  carv- 
ing such  as  might  "have  been  executed  by  a  child  armed 


DISCOVERIES  71 

for  the  first  time  with  a  gouge  and  a  mallet.  It  had 
none  of  the  vigor  and  rhythm  that  commonly  goes  with 
primitive  workmanship.  The  design  was  glaringly 
stupid  and  senseless. 

"We  are  poor  workmen  to-day,"  said  the  priest,  fol- 
lowing and  interpreting  his  glance. 

Roger,  who  had  stood  by,  silent  but  a  little  impa- 
tient, now  intervened.  "These  are  old  family  things," 
he  explained,  "that  I  brought  with  me  from  home. 
They  are  very  rare.  But  the  bed  is  new,  and  I  think 
it  very  pretty.  I  had  it  made  only  a  few  months  ago." 
He  motioned  his  guests  into  chairs,  and  produced  a 
large  earthenware  pot  which  he  offered  to  Jeremy. 
Jeremy  removed  the  lid,  and  saw,  somewhat  to  his 
surprise,  that  it  contained  a  dark,  finely  cut  tobacco. 

"It's  Connemara,"  he  said  laconically.  The  old 
priest  shook  a  long  finger  at  him. 

"Ah,  Roger,  Roger!"  he  chided.  "When  will  you 
learn  to  be  thrifty?  Cannot  you  smoke  the  tobacco  of 
your  own  country?  Winchcombe  is  good  enough  for 
me,"  he  added  to  Jeremy,  bringing  a  linen  bag  and  a 
cherrywood  pipe  out  of  the  folds  of  his  robe. 

"I've  no  pipe,"  said  Jeremy,  fumbling  mechanically 
in  his  pockets.  Roger,  without  speaking,  went  to  a 
chest,  and  produced  two  new,  short  clay  pipes,  one 
of  which  he  handed  to  Jeremy,  while  he  kept  the  other 
himself.  All  three  were  silent  for  a  moment  while 
they  filled  and  lighted  from  a  taper;  and  the  familiar 
operation,  the  familiar  pause,  afflicted  Jeremy  with  an 
acute  memory  of  earher  days.  Then  while  his  palate 
was  still  savoring  the  first  breath  of  the  strong,  cool 
Irish  tobacco  in  the  new  pipe,  the  priest  began  again 
his  rambling  spoken  reveries. 


72        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

"Tell  me,"  he  demanded  suddenly,  "did  you  live  ia 
the  time  of  the  first  Speaker?" 

Jeremy,  hampered  by  a  grievous  lack  of  historical 
knowledge,  tried  to  explain  that  the  Speaker  was  a 
functionary  dating  from  centuries  before  his  time. 
The  old  man  jumped  in  his  chair  with  childlike  en- 
thusiasm. 

"Yes,  yes!"  he  cried.  "This  generation  has  almost 
forgotten  how  he  came  by  his  name.  But  I  meant 
the  great-grandfather  of  our  Speaker,  the  first  to  rule 
England.  You  know  he  was  the  only  strong  man  when 
the  troubles  began.  Do  you  remember  him?  Surely 
you  must  remember  him?  Jeremy  shook  his  head, 
considering.  He  did  not  even  recall  what  had  been 
the  name  of  the  Speaker  when  he  fell  asleep.  But  his 
mind  caught  at  a  word  the  priest  had  used. 

"The  troubles?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,"  the  priest  answered,  a  little  taken  aback, 
throwing  a  glance  at  Roger,  "Don't  you  know  ?  The 
wars,  the  fighting  .  .  ." 

"The  war  .  .  ."  Jeremy  began.  He  knew  a  great 
deal  about  what  had  been  called  by  his  generation, 
quite  simply,  The  War. 

But  Roger  interposed.  "My  uncle  means  the  civil 
wars.  Surely  it  was  in  the  middle  of  the  troubles  that 
your  trance  began?" 


It  was  by  way  of  such  stumblings  and  misappre- 
hensions that  Jeremy  gained  at  last  a  partial  and  con- 
fused picture  of  the  world  into  which  he  had  fallen. 
He  had  been  the  first  to  tire,  but  the  old  priest  had 
been  very  unwilling  to  let  him  go. 

"No,  no,"  he  said  again  and  again,  as  Jeremy  strove 


DISCOVERIES  73 

to  rise,  "you  must  first  tell  me  .  .  ." — ^while  Roger 
sat  watchingf  them  with  an  air  of  inalterable  mildness. 
Roger  had  taken  but  a  little  part  in  the  conversation. 
His  notions  of  the  twentieth  century  were  extraordi- 
narily vague  and  inaccurate ;  and  when  he  had  been  re- 
buked once  or  twice  for  ignorance  he  had  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  placidly  observing  that  it  mattered  very 
little,  and  had  said  no  more. 

Jeremy  crept  into  bed  very  late  by  the  light  of  a 
flickering  candle,  desiring  only  tO'  forget  everything, 
to  postpone  all  effort  of  thought  until  another  day. 
But  when  he  had  blown  out  his  candle,  and  nothing 
remained  but  a  patch  of  moonlight  thrown  through 
the  window  on  the  opposite  wall,  his  mind  grew  active 
again.  It  was  indeed  absurd  to  be  lying  there  in  the 
darkness  with  nothing  to  give  him  ocular  evidence 
of  his  strange  misfortune,  nothing  visible  at  all  but 
the  square  of  pale  radiance,  barred  by  the  heavy  leads 
of  the  pane. 

He  might  have  been  in  bed  in  some  old-fashioned 
country  inn,  the  chance  lodging  of  a  night,  where 
there  would  have  been  just  such  a  window,  and  where 
the  sheets  would  have  been  as  coarse  and  heavy  as 
these  were.  But  then,  a  mile,  or  two  miles,  or  five  miles 
away  there  would  have  been  a  railway  station,  whence 
sooner  or  later  a  train  would  have  carried  him  back 
to  the  flat  in  Holborn,  back  to  his  lectures  and  the 
classes  of  intelligent  young  men  and  women  eager 
for  rational  instruction  in  the  mysteries  of  the  uni- 
verse. He  thought  of  that  station,  and  for  a  moment 
could  see  it  as  vividly  as  he  desired  it,  could  picture 
the  fresh  morning  walk  there,  the  little,  almost  deserted 
platform  with  a  name  picked  out  in  white  pebbles, 
the  old  porter.  .  ,  .  He  could  conjure  up  the  journey 


74        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

and  even  the  smoky  approach  to  London.  But  here, 
though  as  he  had  learnt  there  were  still  trains,  there 
was  certainly  no  train  which  could  do  that  for  him. 

He  shifted  uneasily  on  to  the  other  side,  and  recog- 
nized with  a  groan  that  this  was  an  empty  vision.  It 
behooved  him  to  make  himself  at  home  as  much  and  as 
soon  as  he  could  in  the  year  two  thousand  and  seventy- 
four,  to  learn  what  this  world  was  like,  to  adapt  him- 
self to  it. 

"We  are  a  diminished  people,"  was  the  burden  of 
the  priest's  lament.  "Our  ancestors  were  wise  and 
rich  and  strong,  but  we  have  lost  nearly  all  they  had, 
and  we  shall  never  regain  it."  And  he  had  rehearsed 
the  marvels  of  the  twentieth  century,  trains  leaving 
every  town  in  constant  succession,  motors  on  the  roads, 
aeroplanes  overhead,  steamers  on  the  sea.  But  the 
steamship,  owing  to  the  difficulties  of  its  construction, 
had  practically  ceased  to  exist.  A  rapidly  growing 
percentage  of  accidents,  due  to  faulty  workmanship, 
had  driven  the  aeroplane  altogether  out  of  use.  There 
rwere  still  a  few  motors;  but  these  had  long  been  less 
reliable,  and  were  now  growing  less  speedy,  than  the 
horse.  As  for  trains — there  were  still  trains  running 
to  and  from  London.  One  went  to  Edinburgh  every 
week,  and  two  to  Liverpool  and  Bristol.  The  trains  to 
Dover,  to  the  Midlands  and  to  Yorkshire  were  even 
more  frequent.  The  line  from  London  to  the  West 
of  England  was  still  open,  but  that  district  had  now 
little  importance,  and  trains  were  dispatched  there 
only  when  there  was  some  special  reason. 

Roger  treated  his  uncle's  laments  with  gentle  and 

reasonable   sarcasm.      "I   think,"   he   said   weightily, 

,  "that  you  exaggerate.     I'm  not  convinced  that  the  old 

^times  were  as  wonderful  as  you  think.     Why,  so  far 


DISCOVERIES  75 

as  railways  go,  I  know  something  about  railways. 
It's  part  of  my  duties.  And  I  know  this,  that  engines 
are  always  breaking  down.  I  take  it  that  even  in  the 
old  times  an  engine  that  had  broken  down  wouldn't 
go.  And  I  imagine  that  our  clever  ancestors  had  just 
as  much  trouble  as  we  have  in  keeping  the  lines  up. 
Now  this  week  the  train  from  EdinlDurgh  is  two  days 
overdue,  because  there's  been  a  landslide  in  the  Mid- 
lands. I  suppose  you'll  agree,"  he  added,  turning  to 
Jeremy,  "that  even  in  your  time  a  train  couldn't  get 
through  a  landslide." 

Jeremy  had  agreed.  "I  dare  say,"  Roger  went  on, 
"that  the  railways  aren't  as  good  now  as  they  were 
before  the  troubles.  But  we're  going  to  improve  them. 
The  Speaker  talks  about  repairing  the  old  line  that 
went  out  to  the  eastern  counties.  You  know — you 
can  still  see  parts  of  it  near  Chelmsford." 

The  old  man  on  this  had  looked  appealingly  at  Jere- 
my, who  sought  without  success  to  convince  Roger  that 
the  difference  was  really  great.  But  his  attention  was 
chiefly  concentrated  on  discovering  how  this  and  other 
differences  had  come  about.  It  seemed  incredible  that 
the  race  could  have  forgotten  so  much  and  yet  live. 
The  "Troubles"  were  so  often  in  the  mouths  of  both 
uncle  and  nephew  that  Jeremy's  mind  came  at  last 
to  give  them  their  due  in  the  shape  of  a  capital  letter. 
The  "Troubles."  .  .  .  He  supposed  that  his  trance 
had  begun  with  this  beginning  and  indeed  much  of 
what  the  priest  had  told  him  was  more  vivid  to  him 
than  to  the  teller  when  he  remembered  the  soldier 
and  the  alien  woman  who  had  called  him  a  dirty 
bourgeois,  or  Scott  leaning  down,  pale  and  anxious 
from  the  lorry,  or  the  man  whom  he  had  never  seen, 


76        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

but  who  had  thrown  a  bomb  at  him  down  Trehanoc's 
cellar  steps. 

Jeremy  gathered  that  it  had  been  a  question  not  of 
one  outburst  of  fighting,  one  upheaval  and  turning- 
point  of  time,  but  of  numbers  spread  over  many  years. 

"It  is  hard  to  say  how  it  all  came  about,"  mused  the 
old  man,  at  one  of  the  few  moments  when  he  was  ca- 
joled into  telling  instead  of  asking.  "Some  have  said 
that  the  old  life  grev/  too  difficult,  and  just  ground 
itself  to  pieces.  It  began  with  the  rich  and  the  poor. 
When  some  accident  brought  them  to  blows  it  was  too 
late  to  put  the  world  right.  After  that  they  never 
trusted  one  another,  and  there  was  no  more  peace." 

"When  did  the  fighting  stop  at  last?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"It  kept  on  stopping — it  kept  on  stopping.  And  it 
kept  on  breaking  out  again,  first  in  one  country  and 
then  in  another.  For  fifty  years  there  was  always 
war  in  some  part  of  the  world.  And  when  they  stopped 
fighting  they  couldn't  settle  down  again.  The  workers 
idled,  or  smashed  the  machines.  And  at  last  a  time 
came  when  the  fighting  didn't  stop.  It  went  on  and 
■on  in  England  and  all  over  the  Continent.  All  the 
schools  were  closed,  all  the  teachers  were  idle  for 
more  than  twenty  years.  I  have  often  thought  that  that 
was  how  we  came  to  lose  so  much.  A  generation  grew 
up  that  had  never  learnt  anything.  Only  a  few  men 
knew  how  to  do  the  things  their  fathers  had  done 
every  day,  and  the  rest  were  too  stupid  or  too  lazy 
to  learn  from  them  properly.  Then  everybody  was 
tired  out  and  more  than  half  the  people  were  dead; 
they  had  to  begin  again,  and  they  were  too  weary  to 
recover  as  much  as  they  might  have  done." 

Jeremy  pondered  over  again  the  vision  raised  by 
these  words.     He  could  see  the  earth  ravaged  by  ex- 


DISCOVERIES  77 

hausted  enemies,   too  evenly  matched  to  bring  the 
struggle  to  an  end  until  exhaustion  had  reached  its 
lowest  pitch.    He  could  see  all  the  mechanical  wonders 
of  his  own  age  smashed  by  men  who  were  too  weak 
to  prevail,  but  who  were  strong  enough  not  to  endure 
the  soulless  contrivances  which  had  brought  them  into 
servitude.    And  he  could  see  the  gradual  triumph  of  the 
.Speaker  over  a  weary  and  starving  population.     The 
first   Speaker,   who  had  really  been   Speaker  of  the 
House  of   Commons  in  the  year  when  Jeremy  had 
'fallen  into  his  trance,  had  been  a  man  of  unsuspected 
strength  of  character  and  a  member  of  a  great  and 
wealthy  Jewish  house.    Assisted  by  his  kinsmen  in  all 
parts  of  the  world,  he  had  been  a  rallying-point  for 
the  rich  in  the  early  disorders;  and  he  had  established 
a   party   which   had    lasted,    with   varying    fortunes, 
through  all  the  changes  of  succeeding  years.     He  it 
was   who   had   arranged   that   compromise   with   the 
Church  of  Rome  by  which  all  southern  England  be- 
came again  more  or  less  Catholic  without  too  violently 
alienating  those  parts  of  the  country  in  which  other 
sorts  of  rehgion  were  dominant.    Not  the  least  of  his 
claims  for  greatness  had  been  his  perception  of  the  real 
power  still  concentrated  in  the  fugitive  and  changing 
person  of  that  Bishop  of  Rome  who  was  chased  from 
his  own  ruined  palace  and  his  own  city,  up  and  down 
Europe  from  one  refuge  to  another,  as  the  forces  of 
disorder  veered  and  changed  .  .  .  subsided  here  and 
rose  again  there.     One  by  one  the  countries  of  the 
earth  had  sunk,  bloodless  and  impoverished,  into  quies- 
cence, and  when  the  turn  of  England  came,  the  house 
of  the  Speaker,  the  house  of  Burney,  in  the  person  of 
his  grandson,  had  been  at  hand  to  take  the  opportunity. 


78        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

"And  did  all  the  people  die  off  in  the  fighting?** 
Jeremy  had  wondered.  : 

"In  battle  and  disease  and  famine,"  the  priest  an- 
swered. "Towards  the  end  of  the  Troubles  came  the 
Great  Famine.  And  that  was  the  cause  of  the  worst 
of  the  wars.  The  people  of  the  towns  were  starving, 
because  they  were  fighting  in  America  and  sent  us  no 
food-ships,  and  the  country  people  were  nearly  starv- 
ing too,  because  their  crops  had  failed.  They  strug- 
gled  for  what  food  there  was  .  .  .  they  died  by  mil- 
lions ...  by  millions  and  millions.  .  .  ." 

"I  must  say  I  find  it  hard  to  believe  all  that,"  Roger 
interposed  with  an  air  of  detachment.  "My  uncle  is 
so  enthusiastic  about  the  old  times  that  he  believes 
whatever  any  one  tells  him  or  what  he  reads  in  a  lot 
of  old  books — books  you  couldn't  imagine  if  you 
hadn't  seen  them,  filthy,  simply  dropping  to  pieces.  .  .  . 
The  more  improbable  the  story  the  better  he  likes  it. 
Well,  in  the  first  place,  why  should  those  people  have 
wanted  food  from  other  countries?  What  did  they 
do  if  they  didn't  grow  it  for  themselves?  And  why 
should  so  many  of  them  be  living  in  towns?" 

"You  are  very  ignorant,  my  boy,"  said  the  old  man 
calmly.  "Look  at  London  now ;  look  at  the  miles  of 
houses  that  no  one  has  lived  in  for  a  hundred  years. 
Who  did  live  in  them  but  the  people  who  died  of 
famine?" 

"It  isn't  a  very  great  matter  after  all,  is  it?"  Roger 
muttered,  suppressing  a  yawn. 

"Before  the  Troubles,"  the  priest  continued,  half  to 
himself,  "there  were  nearly  fifty  millions  of  people 
in  England  alone.  Do  you  know  what  the  census 
was?"  he  asked  sharply,  turning  to  Jeremy.  Jeremy 
replied  that  he  did.    "Ah,  Roger  wouldn't  know  what 


DISCOVERIES  79 

the  word  meant.  Well,  I  have  read  the  report  of  the 
census  of  1921,  and  then  there  were  nearly  fifty  mil- 
lion people  in  England  alone.  Where  are  they  now? 
We  have  not  more  than  ten  or  twelve  millions,  and  we 
have  never  counted  them — never  counted  them.  But 
Roger  and  the  young  men  of  his  age  think  that  nothing 
has  happened,  that  we  are  not  much  worse  off  than 
we  were,  that  there  is  no  need  for  us  to  bestir  our- 
selves." 

I     "And  is  it  like  this  all  over  the  world  ?"  Jeremy  had 
asked,  stunned  by  the  implications  of  this  fact. 
j     "All  over  the  world — so  far  as  we  know." 

"All  over  the  world — all  over  the  world."  The 
words  rang  again  in  Jeremy's  ears  as  he  tossed  uneasily 
in  bed.  The  old  world  had  collapsed,  and  the  falling 
roof  had  crushed  and  blotted  out  forever  most  of  what 
'he  had  thought  perpetually  established.  And  then, 
amazingly,  the  stones  and  timbers  had  not  continued 
in  their  fall  to  utter  ruin.  They  had  found  their  level 
and  stayed,  jammed  together,  perhaps,  fortuitously,  to 
make  a  lower  and  narrower  vault,  which  still  sufficed 
to  shelter  the  improvident  family  of  men.  The  human 
race  had  not  perished,  had  not  even  been  reduced  to 
utter  barbarism.  Its  glissade  into  the  abyss  had  been 
arrested,  and  it  remained  on  the  ledge  of  ground  where 
it  had  been  thrown.  So  much  was  left.  How  much? 
j  He  realized  with  a  slight  shock  that  he  was  lying  on 
his  back,  beating  feverishly  with  his  hands  on  the 
bedclothes,  and  muttering  half  aloud  as  though  in  a 
dehrium,  "What  is  left?  What  can  be  left?"  He 
dragged  himself  back  abruptly  from  what  seemed  for 
a  moment  to  be  the  edge  of  madness.  Still  his  mind 
obstinately  demanded  to  know  what  was  left  that  was 
tangible,  that  he  had  known  and  could  recognize.    He 


8o        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

could  not  get  beyond  the  landmarks  of  his  childhood. 
Was  Westminster  Abbey  still  standing?  Was  the 
Monument?  He  knew  that  St.  Paul's  was  gone.  It 
had  been  lost  by  a  generation  which  had  been  careless 
of  the  warnings  given  by  its  groaning  arches  and  lean- 
ing walls;  it  had  fallen  and  crushed  some  hundreds 
of  the  negligent  inheritors.  Was  Nelson's  column  still 
in  Trafalgar  Square?  Jeremy,  with  a  childish  un- 
reason, was  eager  to  have  an  answer  to  this  question. 

Now  his  thoughts  abruptly  abandoned  it  and  fled 
back  to  pictures  of  the  Troubles.  He  could  see  very 
vividly,  more  vividly  than  anything  else,  the  classroom 
in  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  deliver  his  lecture 
empty  and  deserted,  benches  torn  up  to  make  bonfires 
or  barricades,  dust  sifting  in  through  the  broken  win- 
dows and  lying  thick  on  the  floor.  He  remembered 
with  a  painful  laugh  that  he  had  left  the  first  written 
sheets  of  a  paper  on  the  Viscosity  of  Liquids  in  a 
drawer  in  the  lecturer's  table.  Burnt,  too,  no  doubt 
.  .  .  That  knowledge  had  perished.  But  most  knowl- 
edge had  perished  in  another  way,  had  merely  faded 
from  the  mind  of  man,  because  of  his  growing  inca- 
pacity for  acquiring  it.  There  flashed  upon  him  the 
vision  of  a  changed  world,  in  which  there  was  no'  fel- 
low for  him,  save  only  a  few,  and  those  among  the 
very  old. 

For  a  moment  his  mind  paused,  as  though  a  cold 
finger  had  intervened  and  touched  it.  During  the 
hours  of  the  night  his  eyes  had  been  growing  used  to 
the  darkness,  but,  so  much  were  his  thoughts  turned 
inwards,  he  had  not  noticed  it.  Now,  in  the  sudden 
cessation  of  thought,  he  saw  clearly  the  bed  in  which 
he  was  lying,  the  matting  on  the  floor,  the  rough  walls 
and  ceiling,  and  every  detail  of  the  little  room.     He 


DISCOVERIES  81 

started  up,  went  to  the  window  and  thrust  his  head  out 
into  the  night  air.  The  bushes  below  murmured  faint- 
ly under  the  touch  of  a  breeze  he  could  not  feel.  All 
around  was  perfectly  quiet;  and  where  that  evening 
he  had  seen  buildings  through  the  farthest  trees,  no 
lights  were  to  be  descried.  He  pushed  his  head  farther 
out  and  looked  to  left  and  right.  There  were  no  lights 
in  the  Treasury:  no  sound  came  from  any  of  the 
rooms.  Jeremy  stayed  thus  for  a  little,  helpless  in  one 
of  those  fits  in  which  every  physical  faculty  is  capable 
while  the  mind  is  dizzied  by  the  mere  power  of  a 
{thought. 

He  knew  that,  by  reason  of  his  strange  fate,  he  was 
alone  in  this  generation.  But  he  had  only  just  begun  to 
realize  how  much  alone  he  was.  Now  he  felt  he  had 
no  community  with  any  of  these  creatures,  that  not 
only  the  face  of  the  earth  but  the  spirit  of  its  dwellers 
had  been  changed  while  he  slept.  They  looked  at  the 
world  and  at  themselves  in  a  manner  which  was  not 
familiar  to  him.  They  were  ignorant  of  things  he  could 
never  explain  to  them.  They  believed  things  which 
to  him  could  never  be  credible.  There  was  a  gap  be- 
tween him  and  them  which  nothing  could  ever  bridge. 

Tears  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  pondered  numbly 
over  his  tragedy.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  look 
back  and  see  his  own  world,  full  of  familiar  men  and 
places,  friendly  and  infinitely  desirable.  He  began  ta 
believe  that  all  things  which  had  happened  and  are  to 
happen  exist  simultaneously  somewhere  in  the  universe. 
And  then,  shaking  himself  free  from  this  absurd  home- 
sickness in  time,  he  began  to  consider  the  immediate 
future.  The  rest  of  his  life  was  perhaps  a  negligible 
piece  of  eternity  compared  with  that  through  which 
he  had  already  lived;  but  it  would  have  to  be  passed 


82        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

somehow.  The  more  he  thought  about  It  the  more 
ridiculously  impossible  it  seemed  that  he  should  now 
see  out  the  reasonable  span  of  human  life. 

Could  he  adjust  himself  to  this  new  world,  find  a 
place  in  its  business,  earn  a  living,  make  friends,  per- 
haps marry  and  beget  children?  The  idea  was  pre- 
posterous; he  ought  rather  to  be  in  a  museum.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  one  day  his  youth  in  the  twentieth 
century  would  be  as  dim  a  recollection  to  him  as  must 
be,  he  supposed,  the  youth  of  most  old  men  to  them? 
There  passed  before  his  eyes,  sudden  and  uncalled  for, 
a  procession  of  solemn  persons,  parents,  and  even 
aunts,  schoolmasters,  the  principal  of  the  college  in 
which  he  lectured,  the  professor  under  whom  he  had 
worked.  All,  in  that  distant  youth,  when  he  had 
seemed  rash  and  impatient,  had  advised  him,  had  ad- 
jured him  to  consider  his  future.  Well,  here  it  was. 
.  .  .  He  laughed  loudly  and  harshly. 

He  drew  his  head  from  the  window  and  turned  slow- 
ly back  towards  his  bed,  cooled  and  refreshed  and  a 
little  inclined  towards  sleep.  As  he  pulled  the  clothes 
over  his  body  and  settled  his  head  on  the  pillow  the 
thought  struck  him  that  perhaps  all  this  was  a  night- 
mare, which  would  have  disappeared  when  he  woke, 
for  sleeping  and  waking  were  now  Invested  for  him 
with  powers  so  incalculable  that  anything  might  be 
expected  of  either  of  them.  He  drew  closer  down 
into  the  bed  and  found  the  warmth  of  the  rough  sheets 
pleasant  to  his  limbs.  The  square  of  the  window  was 
rapidly  changing  to  a  pale  gray.  Perhaps  in  the  morn- 
ing this  fantastic  mirage  would  have  altered  its  ap- 
pearance. It  was  getting  towards  dawn — would  he 
never  go  to  sleep?  Or  If  It  did  not  ...  no  doubt  a 
humdrum  career  was  as  possible  in  this  century  as 


DISCOVERIES  83 

in  any  other.  There  was  a  bird  waking  in  the  bushes 
under  his  window;  and  when  they  all  began  it  would 
be  impossible  to  go  to  sleep.  Perhaps  he  could  get 
a  job  of  some  kind — ^lie  might  be  useful  on  the  rail- 
ways. .  .  .  His  eyelids  sank  and  an  invincible  lassitude 
spread  through  his  body.  A  sudden  fear  of  sleep  seized 
him — a  terror  lest  this  time  it  might  carry  him  into 
some  even  less  friendly  age;  but  in  spite  of  it,  con- 
sciousness faded  away. 


In  another  room,  not  far  ofi  in  that  diminished 
city,  candles  were  burning  while  Jeremy  tossed  to  and 
fro  in  the  darkness.  At  a  great  mahogany  table^ — 
the  dining-table  of  some  moldered  Victorian  gentle- 
man— Father  Henry  Dean  sat  down  long  after  mid- 
night, and,  with  the  sleepless  industry  of  a  very  old 
man,  began  to  turn  over  the  pages  of  his  chronicle. 
All  around  the  lighted  circle  in  which  he  sat  soft 
shadows  filledj  the  room,  obscuring  the  great  oak 
dresser,  a  now  worn  and  mellowed  relic  of  the  Arts 
and  Crafts  Movement,  and  the  bookcase,  which  was 
modern  work,  covered  with  crude  and  tasteless  ara- 
besques, and  offended  its  owner  whenever  he  saw  it. 

His  labors  in  the  composition  of  his  history  were 
immense  and  were  bewildering  to  the  younger  men  of 
his  time.  It  had  been  a  blissful  experience  to  meet,  in 
Jeremy,  one  who  understood  the  pains  he  took  in  order 
to  arrive  at  a  seemingly  useless  truth.  The  pages 
through  which  he  was  now  glancing  represented  a 
lifetime  of  devotion.  They  represented  also  an  endur- 
ing and  a  passionate  regret.  Father  Henry  deserved 
whatever  condemnation  properly  falls  upon  the  praiser 
of  the  past. 


84        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

In  the  pursuit  of  his  object  he  had  lavished  his 
youth  and  his  middle  age;  and  he  was  still  spending 
his  last  years  in  the  discovery  and  study  of  the  books 
that  were  now  slowly  vanishing  from  the  world.  He 
alone  in  his  generation  had  made  many  journeys  to 
the  great  deserted  repository  where,  before  the 
Troubles,  the  authorities  of  the  British  Museum  had 
stored  the  innumerable  and  bewildering  periodicals 
of  a  time  that  had  been,  if  anything,  too  well  informed. 
A  satirical  poet  might  have  found  a  theme  in  that  dark, 
dejected,  and  rat-ridden  building,  whose  windows  and 
doors  had  long  since  vanished  and  where  man's  neg- 
lect had  conspired  with  the  weather  and  the  sheltering 
beasts  to  disperse  the  knowledge  it  contained. 

The  priest's  youth  had  gone  before  he  heard  of  this 
storehouse.  When  he  found  it,  the  stooping,  patient 
figure,  turning  over  the  pages  of  long-forgotten  news- 
papers, which  were  brown  and  ragged,  dropping  in 
pieces,  covered  with  mildew,  sodden  with  rain  or  eaten 
away  by  rats,  might  have  ofifered  the  same  poet  a  spec- 
tacle too  pathetic  for  the  exercise  of  his  fancy.  Father 
Henry  did  his  best;  but  the  ravages  of  time  had  been 
enormous.  For  the  whole  of  1920  and  part  of  192 1 
he  could  find  no  connected  authority  but  the  files  of  an 
illustrated  Sunday  paper. 

It  had  been  almost  the  same  in  the  British  Museum 
itself,  which  he  had  discovered  in  earlier  life  and  where 
his  strange  passion  was  first  nurtured.  There  was 
only  the  tragic  difference  that  here  decay  had  not  gone 
so  far  that  it  might  not  yet  be  repaired.  Many  of  the 
treasures  of  the  Museum  had  been  destroyed,  or  spoilt, 
or  stolen,  and  the  library  had  suffered  no  less.  Father 
Henry,  when  he  was  a  young  man,  obtained  a  key  to 
Jhe  rooms  in  which  the  books  lay  and  wandered  among 


DISCOVERIES  85 

the  shelves,  observing  with  tears  the  damage  done 
here,  too,  by  rain  and  the  rats,  so  that  here  too  many 
unique  records  were  already  wholly  destroyed  or  ren- 
dered illegible.  There  was  still  a  curator  of  the  Mu- 
seum, an  official  at  the  Speaker's  court,  who  held  the 
post  as  a  sinecure  and  visited  the  building  perfunctorily 
once  or  twice  a  year.  In  his  very  early  and  ardent 
youth  the  priest  had  addressed  a  petition  to  the  Speaker, 
praying  with  some  vehemence  that  the  part  of  the 
Museum  which  held  the  library  might  be  mended  and 
made  weatherproof.  The  Speaker  was  indifferent,  the 
curator  resentful;  and  Father  Henry's  foolish  persis- 
"tence  had  spoilt  his  own  hopes  of  advancement  and 
thrown  him  more  deeply  into  his  solitary  enthusiasm 
for  the  recovery  of  knowledge. 

Once  again,  in  his  middle  years,  on  the  succession  of 
a  new  Speaker,  he  renewed  his  petition,  and  for  a  time 
his  expectations  had  risen.  But  the  new  ruler  had 
lost  interest  when  he  found  that  Father  Henry's  object 
was  only  the  study  of  history,  not  the  revival  of  me- 
chanical inventions.  Other  things  had  intervened,  and 
the  project  had  been  dropped.  After  that  the  priest 
began  carrying  to  his  own  house  such  volumes  as  he 
most  valued ;  but  he  dared  not  do  this  on  a  great  scale, 
lest  the  curator  should  make  it  a  convenient  occasion 
for  a  display  of  zeal.  He  prophesied  privately  to  ac- 
quaintances, who  did  not  care,  that  in  another  genera- 
tion the  library  would  have  been  altogether  lost. 

Amid  these  difficulties  he  had  almost  completed  the 
work  through  which  he  was  now  abstractedly  rambling. 
Jeremy's  appearance  had  filled  him  with  homesickness 
for  the  past  no  less  acute  than  Jeremy's  own;  and  he 
looked  at  the  crabbedly  written  pages  through  a  film 


86        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

of  tears.  In  an  early  chapter  he  corrected  with  pleas- 
ure his  own  doubt  whether  the  Atlantic  had  ever  really 
been  crossed  through  the  air.  In  the  newspapers  he 
had  consulted  by  some  odd  chance,  only  allusions  to 
this  feat,  but  no  direct  record  of  it  survived.  He  noted 
also  that  he  must  revise  his  estimate  of  one  Bob  Hart, 
a  prominent  Labor  leader  of  the  years  in  which  the 
Troubles  began.  Relying  on  the  illustrated  Sunday 
paper,  Father  Henry  Dean  had  depicted  him  as  a  great, 
corrupt,  and  sinister  demagogue,  who  combined  the 
more  salient  qualities  of  Robespierre  and  Heliogabalus. 
Jeremy  happened  to  have  met  him  once  or  twice,  and 
affirmed  confidently  that  he  was  a  small,  bewildered 
and  timid  man,  with  a  stock  of  homely  eloquence  and 
no  reasoning  power. 

The  old  priest  turned  on  and  reached  his  account 
of  the  ruin  of  St.  Paul's,  which  had  occurred  after  the 
Troubles  and,  indeed,  during  his  own  childhood.  He 
had  actually  seen  it  standing,  though  he  had  not  seen 
it  fall.  In  the  chronicle  he  described  the  catastrophe, 
the  portents  which  preceded  it,  and  the  cloud  of  dust 
which  hung  for  a  few  minutes  over  the  settling  ruins, 
and  in  which  many  had  thought  they  had  seen  an  aveng- 
ing shape. 

After  this  he  had  given  a  long  and  elaborate  account 
of  the  wonderful  building,  supplementing  his  childish 
recollections  from  a  rich  and  varied  tradition.  Father 
Henry  remembered  that  the  great  dome  of  the  cathe- 
dral had  been  gilded,  and  here  tradition  supported  him. 
Jeremy,  however,  declared  that  this  was  not  true.  The 
old  priest  looked  carefully  through  what  he  had 
written;  and  then,  sitting  back  in  his  great  chair  and 
rattling   his   quill   between   his   teeth,   he  considered 


DISCOVERIES  87 

Jeremy's  evidence.  At  last  he  shook  his  head,  put  down 
his  pen,  and  locked  his  papers  away.  Having  done 
this,  he  blew  out  all  the  candles  but  one,  took  the  last 
and  dragged  himself  heavily  away  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  SPEAKER 


"1X7"  HEN  Jeremy  woke,  the  same  panic  terror  of  that 
'  '  transition  seized  him  again  for  a  moment  and 
poised  him  on  a  razor's  edge  between  consciousness 
and  unconsciousness.  It  passed.  The  clear  morning 
light  falling  on  his  bed  revealed  to  him  that  his  hum- 
drum existence  in  the  new  world  began  with  that  day. 
The  surprises  and  the  anxieties  were  over.  All  that 
remained  was  a  process  of  adaptation  and  settlement; 
and,  feeling  a  certain  eagerness  to  begin,  he  began  by 
scrambing  out  of  bed. 

There  was,  as  he  might  have  remembered,  no  bath 
in  the  room;  and  he  decided  that  to  search  for  one 
along  these  unknown  corridors  would  be  an  enterprise 
not  less  chimerical  than  embarrassing.  He  looked  about 
the  room  rather  helplessly  and  lit  at  last  on  what  he  had 
not  seen  the  night  before,  a  metal  ewer  of  water  with 
a  basin,  standing  behind  the  wooden  chest.  There  was 
no  soap  with  them,  and  the  chest  turned  out  to  be 
locked.  He  was  still  revolving  this  problem  in  his 
mind,  while  the  nightshirt  flapped  pleasantly  round 
his  legs  in  a  light  draught,  when  Roger  came  in,  look- 
ing as  placid  and  collected  as  he  had  been  when  he  had 
shown  Jeremy  to  bed. 

"Are  you  well  ?"  Roger  asked ;  and,  without  waiting 


THE  SPEAKER  89 

for  a  reply,  he  went  on  smoothly,  "Of  course  you 
have  nothing  of  your  own  for  dressing.  I've  brought 
you  my  soap  and  a  razor  and  a  glass — and  .  .  ."  He 
hesitated  a  little. 

"Yes?"  Jeremy  encouraged  him. 

"I  thought  perhaps  it  might  be  better  if  I  were  to 
lend  you  some  of  my  clothes.  You  know,  your  own  do 
look  ...  If  you  don't  mind  .   .  ." 

"Of  course  not,"  Jeremy  assented  with  pleasure. 
It  was  the  last  of  his  desires  to  be  in  any  way  con- 
spicuous,    "I  should  very  much  prefer  it." 

When  Roger  had  gone  he  examined  with  some  inter- 
est the  soap  which  had  been  given  to  him.  It  was  a 
thin  and  wasted  cake,  very  heavy,  and  of  a  harsh  and 
gritty  substance.  But  what  was  chiefly  interesting 
was  that  it  lay  in  a  little  metal  casket  which  had  a  lock 
on  it.  This  simple  fact  led  Jeremy's  mind  down  a 
'widening  avenue  of  speculation.  He  dragged  him- 
self away  from  it  with  difficulty,  and  was  in  the  middle 
of  washing  and  shaving  when  Roger  returned.  It 
was  at  least  a  relief  to  find  that  the  razor  had  a  prac- 
ticable edge. 

Roger  sat  on  the  bed  and  watched  Jeremy  in  silence. 
There  was  nothing  specially  perplexing  in  these  new 
clothes,  which  comprised  a  thick  woolen  vest,  a  shirt, 
breeches,  and  a  loose  coat,  and  were  obviously  the  gar- 
ments of  a  race,  or  a  class,  used  to  a  life  spent  largely 
out  of  doors.  Jeremy  put  them  on  without  difficulty 
until  he  came  to  the  shapeless  bunch  of  colored  linen 
which  served  as  a  tie.  Here  Roger  was  obliged  to  in- 
tervene and  help  him. 

"How  absurd!"  Roger  exclaimed  with  satisfaction, 
standing  away  and  regarding  him  when  the  operation 
was  completed.     "Now  you  look  like  anybody  else. 


90        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

And  yet  yesterday,  when  I  found  you,  you  looked  like 
some  one  out  of  one  of  the  old  pictures.  It's  almost 
a  pity  .  .  ." 

"That's  all  right,"  Jeremy  sighed,  still  fidgeting  a 
little  with  the  tie  and  trying  to  see  himself  in  a  very 
small  shaving-glass.  "I  want  to  look  like  anybody  else. 
It's  a  great  piece  of  luck  that  only  you  and  your  uncle 
know  that  I'm  not.  I  feel  somehow,"  he  went  on,  with 
an  increasing  warmth  of  expression,  "that  I  can  rely 
on  you.  It  would  be  unbearable  if  all  these  people 
here  knew  what  I  had  told  you."  He  paused,  while  the 
vision  thus  suggested  took  definite  shape  in  his  mind. 
*'You  see,"  he  ruminated,  lost  in  speculation  and  half- 
forgetting  his  hearer,  "I  know  that  nothing  would 
ever  make  me  l^elieve  such  a  story.  I  know  they  would 
look  at  me  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes  and  won- 
der whether  there  was  anything  in  it.  They'd  begin 
to  take  sides  and  quarrel.  The  fools  would  believe 
me  and  the  sensible  people  would  laugh  at  me.  I  should 
begin  to  feel  that  I  was  an  impostor,  a  sort  of  De 
Rougemont  or  Doctor  Cook   .   .   .   only,   of   course, 

you  don't  know  who  they  were "    He  might  have 

rambled  on  much  longer  without  realizing  that  there 
was  a  certain  ungracious  candor  in  these  remarks  if 
his  interest  had  not  been  attracted  by  a  change  of  ex- 
pression, a  mere  flicker  of  m^eaning  in  Roger's  eyes. 

"You  haven't  told  any  one?"  Jeremy  cried  with  a 
sudden  gust  of  entreaty. 

"No — well  ...  no  one  of  importance.  ..."  Roger 
answered,  averting  his  glance.     "But  I  didn't  know — ■ 

3^ou  didn't  say And  there's  my  uncle "  He 

paused  and  considered. 

"But "   Jeremy   began,   and   stopped   appalled. 

The  pressure  of  experience  had  taught  him  that  it 


THE  SPEAKER  91 

was  not  only  an  error  but  also  gross  ill-behavior  to 
make  large  claims  of  any  sort  whatsoever.  He  strongly 
resented  finding  himself  in  the  position  of  having  to 
assert  in  public  that  he  had  lain  in  a  trance  for  a  cen- 
tury and  a  half.  Surely  Roger  should  have  under- 
stood his  feelings  without  warning,  and  should  have 
respected  his  story  as  told  in  confidence  under  an  ob- 
vious necessity.  There  flashed  through  his  mind  the 
question  whether  any  newspapers  still  survived. 

He  burst  out  again  wildly,  fighting  with  a  thickness 
in  his  throat.  "Will  your  uncle  have  told  any  one? 
Isn't  it  much  better  to  say  nothing  about  me  ?  At  least, 
until  I  can  prove " 

"But  what  do  you  mean — prove?"  Roger  inter- 
rupted. "Why  shouldn't  every  one  believe  you  as  I 
did?    There  are  some  men  who  will  believe  nothing, 

but "     He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  dismissed 

them.  "But,  whatever  you  may  wish,  there's  my 
uncle.  .  .  .  He  rises  very  early — I  saw  him  here  half- 
an-hour  ago,  after  Mass." 

Jeremy  opened  his  mouth  to  speak  and  forebore. 

"Consider,  my  dear  friend,"  Roger  went  on  per- 
suasively, "we  didn't  know  your  wishes,  and  it's  late 
in  the  day  already.  I've  been  up  for  some  time;  I've 
even  begun  my  work.  I  didn't  want  to  wake  you,  be- 
cause  " 

"Do  you  mean  that  you've  been  talking  to  every  one 
about  me?"   Jeremy   demanded,   almost   hysterically. 

"You  speak  as  though  you  had  done  something  that 
you  were  ashamed  of.  I  cannot  think  why  you  should 
want  to  hide  so  wonderful  a  matter." 

Jeremy  sat  down  on  the  wooden  chest,  unable  to 
speak,  but  murmuring  sullen  protests  in  his  throat. 
The  face  of  the  future  had  somehow  changed  since  he 


92        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

had  finished  dressing;  and  he  found  himself  unable  to 
explain  to  Roger  how  important  it  was  that  his  secret 
should  be  preserved,  that  he  should  slip  into  the  strange 
world  and  lose  himself  with  as  little  fuss  as  a  rain- 
drop disappearing  in  the  sea.  Besides,  this  young  man 
was  in  a  sort  his  savior  and  protector,  to  whom  he  owed 
gratitude,  and  on  whom  he  certainly  was  dependent. 
.  .  The  anger  which  was  roused  in  him  by  the  placidly 
enquiring  face  opposite  died  away  in  a  fit  of  hopeless- 
ness. 

"What  will  happen  to  me  then?"  he  muttered  at  last. 

"You  will  be  made  much  of,"  Roger  assured  him. 
"Crowds  will  flock  round  you  to  hear  your  story.  The 
Speaker  and  all  the  great  men  of  the  country  will  wish 
to  see  you.  Now  come  with  me  and  eat  something. 
Perhaps  no  one  knows  anything  about  you  yet,  I  said 
nothing  clear.     You  must  come  and  eat." 

"I  don't  want  to  eat,"  Jeremy  mumbled,  suffering 
from  an  intense  consciousness  of  childish  folly. 

Perhaps  Roger  divined  his  feelings,  for  a  slow, 
faint  smile  appeared  on  his  face.  "You  must  eat,"  he 
repeated  firmly.  "You  are  overwrought.  Come  with 
me."  There  was  something  in  his  serene  but  deter- 
mined patience  which  drew  Jeremy  reluctantly  after 
him. 

The  emptiness  of  the  corridor  outside  did  not  re- 
duce Jeremy's  fears  of  the  peopled  house  beyond. 
He  dragged  along  a  pace  behind  Roger,  trying  vainly 
to  overcome  the  unwillingness  in  his  limbs.  When, 
as  they  turned  a  corner,  a  servant  passed  them,  his 
heart  jerked  suddenly  and  he  almost  stopped.  But 
there  might  have  been  nothing  in  the  glance  which  the 
man  threw  at  them.  They  went  on.  Presently  they 
turned  another  corner  and  came  to  a  broad  staircase 


THE  SPEAKER  93 

of   shallow   steps   made   of    slippery   polished   wood. 

When  Jeremy  was  on  the  third  step  he  saw  below 
a  group  of  young  men,  dressed  like  Roger  and  him- 
self, engaged  in  desultory  morning  conversation. 
Again  he  almost  stopped;  but  Roger  held  on,  and  the 
group  below  did  not  look  up.  Their  voices  floated 
lightly  to  him  and  he  recognized  that  they  were  talking 
to  pass  the  time.  He  steeled  himself  for  self-posses- 
sion and  cast  his  eyes  downward,  because  his  footing 
on  the  polished  wood  was  insecure. 

Suddenly  his  ear  was  struck  by  a  hush.  He  lifted 
his  eyes  and  looked  down  at  the  young  men  and  saw 
with  terror  that  the  conversation  had  ceased,  that 
their  faces  were  turned  upwards,  gazing  at  him.  He 
returned  the  stare  stonily,  straining  his  eyes  so  that  the 
eager  features  were  confused  and  ran  into  a  blur. 
The  stairs  became  more  slippery,  his  limbs  less  controll- 
able. Only  some  strange  inhibition  prevented  him  from 
putting  out  a  hand  to  Roger  for  support.  But  Roger, 
still  a  step  in  front,  his  back  self-consciously  stiffened, 
did  not  see  the  discomfort  of  his  charge.  Somehow 
Jeremy  finished  the  descent  and  passed  the  silent  group 
without  a  gesture  that  betrayed  his  agitation.  He 
fancied  that  one  of  the  young  m.en  raised  his  eyebrows 
with  a  look  at  Roger,  and  that  Roger  answered  him 
with  a  faint  inclination  of  the  head. 

They  were  now  in  the  wide  passage  which  led  to 
the  dining-hall,  and  had  almost  reached  the  hall-door, 
when  a  figure  which  seemed  vaguely  familiar  came  into 
sight  from  the  opposite  direction.  It  was  a  man  whose 
firm  steps  and  long,  raking  stride,  out  of  proportion 
to  his  moderate  stature,  gave  him  an  ineffable  air  of 
confidence,  of  arrogance  and  superiority.  He  was 
staring  at  the  ground  as  he  walked ;  but  when  he  came 


94        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

nearer,  Jeremy  was  able  to  recognize  in  the  lean,  sharp- 
boned  face,  with  the  tight  mouth  and  narrow  nose, 
the  distinguished  person  to  whom  Roger  had  alluded 
on  the  previous  night  as  "that  damned  Canadian." 
He  was  almost  level  with  them  when  he  raised  his  head, 
stared  keenly  at  Jeremy,  turned  his  eyes  to  Roger, 
looked  back  again.  .  .  .  Then  with  a  movement  almost 
like  that  of  a  frightened  horse  and  with  an  expression 
of  horror  and  dislike,  he  swen^ed  abruptly  to  one  side, 
crossed  himself  vehemently  and  went  on  at  a  greater 
pace. 

Jeremy's  sick  surmise  at  the  meaning  of  this  portent 
was  confirmed  by  Roger's  scowl  and  exclamation  of 
annoyance.  Both  involuntarily  hesitated  instead  of 
going  through  the  open  door  of  the  hall.  At  the 
tables  inside  four  or  five  men  were  seated,  making 
a  late  but  copious  meal.  As  Roger  and  Jeremy  halted, 
a  servant,  dressed  in  a  strange  and  splendid  livery, 
came  up  behind  them  and  touched  Roger  lightly  on 
the  shoulder.  The  young  man  turned  roun(5  with  an 
exaggeratedly  petulant  movement ;  and  the  servant, 
looking  sideways  at  Jeremy,  began  to  whisper  in  his 
ear.  Jeremy,  his  sense  of  apprehension  deepened, 
drew  off  a  pace.  He  could  see,  as  he  stood  there  wait- 
ing, two  other  men,  dressed  in  what  seemed  much 
more  like  a  uniform  than  a  livery,  half  concealed  in 
the  shadow  of  the  further  corridor. 

The  servant's  whispering  went  on,  a  long,  confused, 
rising  and  falling  jumble  of  sound.  Roger  answered 
in  a  sharp  staccato  accent,  most  unlike  the  ordinary 
tranquillity  of  his  voice,  but  still  beneath  his  breath. 
Jeremy,  with  the  stares  of  the  breakfasting  men  on 
his  shrinking  back,  felt  that  the  situation  was  growing 


THE  SPEAKER  95 

unbearable.  Suddenly  Roger  raised  and  let  fall  his 
hands  in  a  gesture  of  resigned  annoyance. 

"Then  will  you,  sir  .  .  ."  the  servant  insisted  with 
a  deference  that  was  plainly  no  more  than  formal. 

Roger  turned  with  unconcealed  reluctance  to  Jeremy. 
"I  am  sorry,"  he  said  in  the  defensive  and  sullen  tone 
of  a  man  who  expects  reproach.  "The  Speaker  has 
heard  of  you  and  has  sent  for  you.  I  have  asked  that 
I  may  go  with  you,  but  I  am  not  allowed.  You  must 
go  with  this  man.    I  .  .  .  am  sorry  .  .  ." 

Jeremy  faced  the  servant  with  rigid  features,  but 
with  fear  playing  in  his  eyes.  The  man's  back  bent, 
however,  in  a  bow  and  his  expression  betrayed  a  quite 
unfeigned  respect  and  wonder. 

"If  you  will  come  with  me,  sir,"  he  murmured. 
Jeremy  repeated  Roger's  gesture,  and  advanced  a  step 
into  the  darkness  of  the  passage  at  the  side  of  his  con- 
ductor. He  felt,  rather  than  saw  or  heard,  the  two  men 
in  the  shadow  fall  in  behind  him. 


The  way  by  which  the  servant  led  Jeremy  grew 
darker  and  darker  until  he  began  to  believe  that  he 
was  being  conducted  into  the  recesses  of  a  huge  and 
gloomy  castle.  He  had  once  or  twice  visited  the 
Treasury,  where  one  of  his  friends  had  been  employed 
- — nearly  two  hundred  years  ago! — on  some  minute 
section  of  the  country's  business.  He  could  not,  how- 
ever, recognize  the  corridors  through  which  they 
passed;  and  he  supposed  that  the  inside  of  the  build- 
ing had  been  wholly  remodeled.  All  sensation  of 
fear  left  him  as  he  walked  after  his  guide..  His  case 
was,  at  all  events,  to  be  settled  now,  and  the  matter 


96        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

was  out  of  his  hands.  He  felt  a  complete  unconcern 
when  they  halted  outside  a  massive  door  on  which  the 
servant  rapped  sharply  three  times.  There  was  ^ 
pause;  and  then  the  servant,  apparently  hearing  some 
response  which  was  inaudible  to  Jeremy,  threw  open 
the  door,  held  it,  and  respectfully  motioned  him  in. 

Jeremy  was  startled  for  a  moment,  after  the  dark- 
ness of  the  passages,  to  find  himself  in  a  full  blaze  of 
morning  light.  While  he  blinked  awkwardly,  the  door 
closed  behind  him ;  and  it  was  a  minute  or  twa  before 
he  could  clearly  distinguish  the  person  with  whom  he 
had  been  left  alone.  At  last  he  became  aware  of  a 
great,  high-backed  armchair  of  unpolished  wood, 
which  was  placed  near  to  the  window  and  held  the 
old  man  whom  he  had  seen  from,  a  distance,  indis- 
tinctly, the  night  before  at  dinner.  This  figure  wore  ai 
dark  robe  of  some  thick  cloth,  which  was  drawn  in 
loosely  by  a  cord  girdle  at  the  waist  and  resembled  a 
dressing-gown.  His  thick,  wrinkled  neck  rising  out 
of  the  many-folded  collar  supported  a  square,  heavy 
head,  which  by  its  shape  proclaimed  power,  as  the 
face  by  every  line  proclaimed  both  power  and  age. 
The  nose  was  large,  hooked  and  fleshy,  the  lips  thick 
but  firm,  the  beard  long  and  white;  and  under  the 
heavy,  raised  lids  the  brown  eyes  were  almost  youth- 
ful, and  shone  with  a  surprising  look  of  energy  and 
domination.  Jeremy  stared  without  moving;  and,  as 
his  eyes  met  those  of  the  old  man,  a  queex  sensation 
invaded  his  spirit.  He  felt  that  here,  in  the  owner 
of  these  eyes,  this  unmistakably  Jewish  countenance, 
this  inert  and  bulky  form,  he  had  discovered  a  mind 
like  his  own,  a  mind  with  which  he  could  exchange 
ideas,  as  he  could  never  hope  to  do  with  Roger  Vaile 
or  Father  Henry  Dean. 


THE  SPEAKER  97 

The  silence  continued  for  a  full  minute  after  Jer- 
emy had  got  back  the  use  of  his  sight.  At  last  the 
old  man  said  in  a  thick,  soft  voice : 

"Are  you  the  young  man  of  whom  they  tell  me  this 
peculiar  story?"  And  before  Jeremy  could  reply,  he 
added :    "Come  over  here  and  let  me  look  at  you." 

Jeremy  advanced,  .as  if  in  a  dream,  and  stood  by 
the  arm  of  the  chair.  The  Speaker  rose  with  one  slow 
but  powerful  movement,  took  him  by  the  shoulder  and 
drew  him  close  against  the  window.  He  was  nearly 
a  head  taller  than  Jeremy,  but  he  bent  only  his  neck, 
not  his  shqulders,  to  stare  keenly  into  the  younger 
man's  face.  A  feeling  of  hope  and  contentment  rose 
in  Jeremy's  heart;  and  he  endured  this  inspection  for 
several  moments  in  silence  and  with  a  steady  coun- 
tenance. At  last  the  olcf  man  let  his  hand  fall,  turned 
away  and  breathed,  more  inwardly,  almost  wistfully; 
"If  only  it  were  trueT' 

"It  is  true,"  Jeremy  said.  There  was  neither  ex- 
postulation nor  argument  in  his  voice. 

The  Speaker  wheeled  round  on  him  with  a  move- 
fnent  astonishingly  swift  for  his  years  and  his  bulk. 
"You  will  find  me  harder  to  persuade  than  the  others," 
he  said  warningly. 

"I  know."  And  Jeremy  bore  the  gaze  of  frowning 
enquiry  with  a  curiously  confident  smile. 

The  Speaker's  reply  was  uttered  in  a  much  gentler 
tone.  "Come  and  sit  down  by  me,"  he  murmured, 
"and  tell  me  your  story." 

Jeremy  took  a  deep  breath  and  began.  He  told  his 
story  in  much  more  detail  than  he  had  given  to  Roger, 
dwelling  on  the  riots  and  their  causes,  and  on  Tre- 
hanoc's  experiment  and  his  own  interpretation  of  its 
effect.     He   did   not   spare   particulars,   both   of   the 


98        THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

strikes,  as  well  as  he  remembered  them,  and  of  the 
course  of  scientific  investigation  which  had  landed 
him  in  this  position;  and  as  he  proceeded  he  warmed 
to  the  tale,  and  gave  it  as  he  would  have  done  to  a 
man  of  his  own  sort  in  his  own  time.  The  brown 
eyes  continued  to  regard  him  with  an  unflickering  ex- 
pression of  interest.  When  he  paused  and  looked  for 
some  comment,  some  sign  of  belief  or  disbelief,  the 
thick  voice  murmured  only: 

"I  understand.     Go  on." 

Jeremy  described  his  awakening,  the  terrors  and 
doubts  that  had  succeeded  it  and  his  eventual  dismay 
when  he  was  able  at  last  to  climb  into  the  world  again. 
He  explained  how  he  had  gone  back  with  Roger  to  the 
crevice,  how  they  had  seen  the  rat  run  out,  and  how 
he  had  found  the  vacuum-tube.  When  he  had  fin- 
ished, the  Speaker  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two. 
Then  he  rose  and  walked  slowly  to  a  desk,  which  stood 
in  the  further  corner  of  the  room.  He  returned  with 
an  ivory  tablet  and  a  pencil  which  he  gave  into 
Jeremy's  hands. 

"Mark  on  that,"  he  said,  "the  River  Thames  and 
the  position  of  as  many  of  the  great  railway  stations 
of  London  as  you  can  remember." 

Jeremy  suffered  a  momentary  bewilderment,  and 
stared  at  the  intent  but  expressionless  face  of  the  old 
man,  with  an  exclamation  on  his  lips.  But  instantly 
he  understood,  and,  as  he  did  so,  the  map  of  old  Lon- 
don rose  clearly  before  his  eyes.  He  drew  the  line 
of  the  river  and  contrived  to  mark,  with  reasonable 
accuracy,  on  each  side  of  it  as  many  of  the  stations 
as  he  could  think  of.  He  forgot  London  Bridge;  and 
he  explained  that  there  had  been  a  station  called  Can- 
non Street,  which  he  had,  for  some  reason,  never  had 


THE  SPEAKER  99 

occasion  to  use,  and  that  he  did  not  know  quite  where 
it  had  stood. 

The  Speaker  nodded  inscrutably,  took  back  the 
tablet  and  studied  it.  "Do  you  remember  London 
Bridge!"  he  asked,  Jeremy  bit  his  Hp  and  owned  that 
he  did.  "Then  can  you  say,"  the  Speaker  went  on, 
"whether  it  was  north  of  the  river  or  south?" 

Jeremy  discovered,  with  a  wild  anger  at  his  own 
idiocy,  that  he  could  not  remember.  It  would  be  ab- 
surd, horribly  absurd,  if  his  credit  were  to  be  at  the 
mercy  of  so  unaccountable  a  freak  of  the  brain.  He 
thought  at  random,  until  suddenly  there  appeared  be- 
fore his  mind  a  picture  of  the  bridge,  covered  with 
ant-like  crowds  of  people,  walking  in  the  early  morn- 
ing from  the  station  beyond. 

"It  was  on  the  south,"  he  cried  eagerly.  "I  remem- 
ber because — " 

The  Speaker  held  up  a  wrinkled  but  steady  hand. 
"Your  story  is  true,"  lie  said  slowly.  "I  know  very 
well,  as  you  know,  that  nothing  can  prove  it  to  be 
true ;  but  nevertheless  I  believe  it.  Do  you  know  why 
I  believe  it?" 

"I  think  so,"  Jeremy  began  with  hesitation.  He 
felt  that  keen  gaze  closely  upon  him. 

"It  would  be  strange  if  you  knew  in  any  other  way 
what  only  three  or  four  men  in  the  whole  country 
have  cared  to  learn.  You  could  have  learnt  it,  no 
doubt,  from  map^  or  books.  Such  exist,  though  none 
now  look  at  them.  Yet  how  should  you  have  guessed 
what  question  I  would  ask  you?  Do  you  know  that 
of  those  stations  only  two  remain?  I  know  where 
the  rest  were,  because  I  have  studied  the  railways, 
wishing  to  restore  them.  But  now  they  are  all  gone  and 
most  of  them  even  before  my  time.    They  were  soon 


loo      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

gone  and  forgotten.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  walked 
among  the  ruins  of  Victoria,  just  before  it  was  cleared 
by  my  grandfather  to  extend  his  gardens.  Did  you 
go  there  ever  when  the  trains  were  running  in  and 
out?" 

The  question  aroused  in  Jeremy  vivid  memories  of 
departures  for  holidays  in  Sussex,  of  the  return  to 
France  after  leave.  .  .  .  He  replied  haltingly,  at 
random,  troubled  by  recollections. 

The  same  trouble  was  in  the  old  man's  eyes  as  he 
listened.  "It  is  true,"  he  said,  under  his  breath,  almost 
to  himself.  "You  are  an  older  man  than  I  am."  A 
long  pause  followed.  Jeremy  was  the  first  to  return 
from  abstraction,  and  he  was  able,  while  the  Speaker 
mused,  to  study  that  aged,  powerful  face,  to  read  again 
a  determination  in  the  eyes  and  jaw,  that  might  have 
been  fanaticism  had  it  not  been  corrected  by  the  evi- 
dence of  long  and  subduing  experience  ins  the  lines 
round  the  mouth  and  eyes. 

At  last  the  Speaker  broke  the  silence.  "And  in  that 
life,"  he  said,  "you  were  a  scientist f"  He  pronounced 
the  word  with  a  sort  of  lingering  reverence,  as  though 
it  had  meant,  perhaps,  magician  or  oracle. 

Jeremy  tried  to  explain  what  his  learning  was,  and 
what  his  position  had  been. 

"But  do  you  know  how  to  make  things?" 

"I  know  how  to  make  some  things,"  Jeremy  replied 
cautiously.  Indeed,  during  the  social  disorders  of  his 
earlier  existence  he  had  considered  whether  there  was 
not  any  useful  trade  to  which  he  might  turn  his  hand, 
and  he  had  decided  that  he  might  without  difficiilty 
qualify  as  a  plumber.  The  art  of  fixing  washers  on 
taps  was  no  mystery  to  him ;  and  he  judged  that  in  a 
week  or  two  he  might  learn  how  to  wipe  a  joint. 


THE  SPEAKER  loi 

The  Speaker  regarded  him  with  a  growing  interest, 
tempered  by  a  caution  Hke  his  own.  It  seemed  as 
though  it  took  him  some  time  to  decide  upon  his  next 
remark.    At  last  he  said  in  a  low  and  careful  voice : 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  guns?" 

Jeremy  started  and  answered  loudly  and  cheer- 
fully:   "Guns?    Why,  I  was  in  the  artillery!" 

The  effect  of  this  reply  on  the  Speaker  was  remark- 
able. For  a  moment  it  straightened  his  back,  smoothed 
the  wrinkles  from  his  face,  and  threw  an  even  more 
vivid  light  into  his  eyes.  When  he  spoke  again,  he 
had  recovered  his  self-possession. 

"You  were  in  the  artillery?"  he  asked.  "Do  you 
mean  in  the  great  war  against  the  Germans?" 

"Yes^ — the  great  war  that  was  over  just  before  the 
Troubles  began." 

"Of  course  ...  of  course.  ...  I  had  not  real- 
ized  "     It  seemed  to  Jeremy  that,  though  the  old 

man  had  regained  control  of  himself,  this  discovery 
had  filled  him  with  an  inexplicable  vivacity  and  ex- 
citement. He  pressed  Jeremy  eagerly  for  an  account 
of  his  military  experience.  When  the  simple  tale  was 
done,  he  said  impressively: 

"If  you  wish  me  to  be  your  friend,  say  not  one  word 
of  this  to  any  man  you  meet.  Do  you  understand? 
There  is  to  be  no  talk  of  guns.  If  you  disobey  me,  I 
can  have  you  put  in  a  madhouse." 

Jeremy  lifted  his  head  in  momentary  anger  at  the 
threat.  But  there  was  an  earnestness  of  feeling  in 
the  old  man's  face  which  silenced  him.  This,  he  still 
queerly  felt,  was  his  like,  his  brother,  marooned  with 
him  in  a  strange  age.  He  could  not  understand,  but 
instinctively  he  acquiesced. 

"I  promise,"  he  said. 


102       THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

"I  will  tell  you  more  another  day,"  the  Speaker  as- 
sured him.  And  then,  with  an  abrupt  transition,  he 
went  on,  "Do  you  understand  these  times?" 

"Father  Henry  Dean "  Jeremy  began. 

"Ah,  that  old  man !"  the  Speaker  cried  impatiently. 
"He  lives  in  the  past.  And  was  it  not  his  nephew, 
Roger  Vaile,  that  brought  you  here?"  Jeremy  made  a 
gesture  of  assent.  "Like  all  his  kind,  he  lives  in  the 
present.  What  must  they  not  have  told  you  between 
them  ?  Understand,  young  man,  that  you  are  my  man, 
that  you  must  listen  to  none,  take  advice  from  none, 
obey  none  but  me!"  He  had  risen  from  his  chair  and 
was  parading  his  great  body  about  the  room,  as  though 
he  had  been  galvanized  by  excitement  into  an  unnat- 
ural youth.  His  soft,  thick  voice  had  become  hoarse 
and  raucous :  his  heavy  eyelids  seemed  lightened  and 
transfigured  by  the  blazing  of  his  eyes. 

Jeremy,  straight  from  a  century  in  which  display 
of  the  passions  was  deprecated,  shrank  from  this 
exhibition  while  he  sought  to  understand  it. 

"If  I  can  help  you "  he  murmured  feebly. 

"You  can  help  me,"  the  Speaker  said,  "but  you  shall 
learn  how  another  day.  You  shall  understand  how  it 
is  that  you  seem  to  have  been  sent  by  Heaven  just  at 
this  moment.  But  now,  tell  me  what  do  you  think 
of  these  times?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Jeremy  began  uncertainly.  "I  know 
so  little.  You  seem  to  have  lost  almost  all  that  we  had 
gained " 

"And  yet?"  the  Speaker  interrupted  harshly. 

Jeremy  sought  to  order  in  his  mind  the  confused 
and  contradictory  thoughts.  "And  yet  perhaps  you 
have  lost  much  that  is  better  gone.  This  world  seems 
to  me  simpler,  more  peaceful,  safer.    .    .    .   We  used 


THE  SPEAKER  103 

to  feel  that  we  were  living  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice — ■ 
every  man  by  himself,  and  all  men  together,  lived  .in 
anxiety.    ..." 

"And  you  think  that  now  we  are  happy?"  the  old 
man  asked  with  a  certain  irony,  pausing  close  to 
Jeremy's  chair,  so  that  he  towered  over  him.  "Perhaps 
you  are  right — perhaps  you  are  right.  .  .  .  But  if 
we  are  it  is  the  happiness  of  a  race  of  fools.  We,  too, 
are  living  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  as  terrible  as  any 
you  ever  knew.  Do  you  believe  that  any  people  can 
come  down  one  step  from  the  apex  and  fall  no 
further?  "  He  contemplated  Jeremy  with  eyes  sud- 
denly grown  cold  and  calculating.  "You  were  not, 
I  think,  one  of  the  great  men,  one  of  the  rulers  of  your 
time.  You  were  one  of  the  little  people."  He  turned 
away  and  resumed  his  agitated  pacing  up  and  down, 
speaking  as  though  to  himself.  "And  yet  what  does 
it  matter?  The  smallest  creature  of  those  days  might 
be  a  great  man  to-day." 

A  profound  and  dreadful  silence  fell  upon  the  room. 
Jeremy,  feeling  himself  plunged  again  in  a  nightmare, 
straightened  himself  in  his  chair  and  waited  events. 
The  Speaker  struggled  with  his  agitation,  striding  up 
and  down  the  room.  Gradually  his  step  grew  more 
tranquil  and  his  gestures  less  violent;  his  eyes  ceased 
to  blaze,  the  lids  drooped  over  them,  the  lines  round 
his  mouth  softened  and  lost  their  look  of  cruel 
purpose. 

"I  am  an  old  man,"  he  murmured  indistinctly.  His 
voice  was  again  thick  and  soft,  the  voice  of  an  elderly 
Jew,  begging  for  help  but  determined,  even  in  ex- 
tremity, not  to  betray  himself.  "I  am  an  old  man  and 
I  have  no  son.  These  people,  the  people  of  my  time, 
do  not  understand  me.    When  my  father  died,  I  prom- 


104      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

ised  myself  that  I  would  raise  this  country  again  to 
what  it  was,  but  year  'after  year  they  have  defeated  me 
with  their  carelessness,  their  indolence.  ...  If  you 
can  help  me,  if  you  understand  fftins  ...  if  you  can 
help  me,  I  shall  be  grateful,  I  shall  not  forget  yoi>." 

Jeremy,  perplexed  almost  out  of  his  wits,  muttered 
an  inarticulate  reply. 

"You  must  be  my  guest  and  my  companion,"  the 
Speaker  went  on.  "I  will  give  orders  for  a  room  near 
my  own  apartments  to  be  prepared  for  you,  and  you 
shall  eat  at  my  table.  And  jou  must  learn.  You  must 
listen,  listen,  listen  always  and  never  speak.  I  will 
teach  you  myself;  but  you  must  learn  from  every  man 
that  comes  near  you.    Can  you  keep  your  tongue  still  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Jeremy,  a  little  wearily.  He 
was  beginning  to  think  that  this  old  man  was  possibly 
mad  and  certainly  as  incomprehensible  as  the  rest.  He 
was  oppressed  by  these  hints  and  mysteries  and  enig- 
matic injunctions.  He  thought  that  the  Speaker  was 
absurdly,  unreasonably,  melodramatically,  making  a 
scene. 

A  change  of  expression  flickered  over  the  Speaker's 
face.  "I  have  no  son,"  he  breathed,  as  though  to  him- 
self, but  with  eyes,  in  which  there  was  a  look  of  cun- 
ning, fixed  on  Jeremy.  And  then  he  said  aloud,  "Well, 
then,  you  are  my  friend  and  you  shall  be  well  treated 
here.  Now  you  must  come  with  me  and  I  will  present 
you  to  my  wife   .    .    .   and   .    .    .   my  daughter." 


In  the  sensations  of  that  morning  the  last  thing  that 
troubled  Jeremy  was  to  find  himself  carrying  on  a 
familiar  conversation  with  a  prince.     He  accepted  it 


THE  SPEAKER  105: 

as  tiatural  that  his  accident  should  have  made  him 
important;  and  he  conducted  himself  without  discom- 
fort in  an  interview  which  might  otherwise  have  em- 
barrassed and  puzzled  him — for  he  was  self-conscious 
and  awkward  in  the  presence  of  those  who  might  -ex- 
pect deference  from  him.  He  was  first  recalled  to 
the  strangeness  of  the  position  by  the  Speaker's  eager 
informality. 

It  was  true  that  he  was  unacquainted  with  the  habits 
of  courts  in  any  century.  And  yet  should  not  the 
Speaker  have  called  a  servant  or  perhaps  even  a  high 
official,  instead  of  thus  laying  his  own  hand  on  the 
door  and  beckoning  his  guest  to  follow?  Jeremy 
failed  for  a  moment  to  obey  the  gesture,  standing  legs 
apart,  considering  with  a  frown  the  old  man  before 
him.  It  was  nothing  but  an  elderly  Jew,  by  turns 
arrogant  and  supplicating,  moved  perhaps  a  little  over 
the  edge  of  sanity  by  his  great  age  and  by  disappointed 
ambitions. 

Then  he  started,  recovered  his  wits  and  followed 
the  crooked  !finger.  They  went  out  into  the  passage 
together.  As  they  came  into  the  gloom  the  old  man 
suddenly  put  his  arm  round  Jeremy's  shoulders  and, 
stooping  a  little  to  his  ear,  murmured  in  a  manner  and 
with  an  accent  more  than  ever  plainly  of  the  East: 

"My  son,  niy  son,  be  my  friend  and  I  will  be  yours. 
And  you  must  be  a  little  respectful  to  the  Lady  Burney, 
my  wife.  She  will  think  it  strange  that  I  bring  you 
to  her  without  ceremony.  She  is  younger  than  I  am, 
and  different  from  me,  different  from  you.  She  is 
like  the  rest.    But  I  do  nothing  without  reason   ..." 

Jeremy  stiffened  involuntarily  under  the  almost 
fawning  caress  and  muttered  what  he  supposed  to  be 
a  sufficient  answer.     The  old  man  withdrew  his  arm 


io6      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

and  straightened  his  bent  back;  and  they  continued 
their  way  together  in  silence. 

Presently  they  came  into  a  broader  and  lighter  cor- 
ridor, the  windows  of  which  opened  on  to  a  garden. 
Jeremy  recognized  it  as  the  garden  he  had  seen  from 
his  room  the  evening  before,  and,  looking  aside  as* 
they  passed,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  party  of  young 
men,  busy  at  some  game  with  balls  and  mallets — a 
kind  of  croquet,  he  imagined.  They  went  on  a  few 
paces,  and  a  servant,  springing  up  from  a  chair  in  a 
niche,  stood  in  a  respectful  attitude  until  they  had 
gone  by.  At  last  the  Speaker  led  the  way  into  a  small 
room  where  a  girl  sat  at  a  table,  languidly  playing  with 
a  piece  of  needlework. 

She,  too,  sprang  to  her  feet  when  she  saw  who  it 
was  that  had  entered ;  and  Jeremy  looked  at  her  keenly. 
This  was  the  first  woman  he  had  seen  at  close  quarters 
since  his  awakening,  and  he  was  curious  to  find  he 
hardly  knew  what  change  or  difference.  She  was  short 
and  slender  and  apparently  very  young.  Her  dress 
was  simple  in  line,  a  straight  garment  which  left  the 
neck  bare,  but  came  up  close  to  it  and  fell  thence 
directly  to  her  heels,  hardly  gathered  in  at  all  by  a 
belt  at  the  waist.  Its  gray  linen  was  covered  from 
the  collar  to  the  belt  by  an  intricate  and  rather  dis- 
pleasing design  of  embroidery,  while  broad  bands  of 
the  same  pattern  continued  downward  to  the  hem  of 
the  long  skirt.  Her  hair  was  plaited  and  coiled,  tightly 
and  severely,  round  her  head.  Her  attitude  was  one 
of  submission,  almost  of  humility,  with  eyes  ostenta- 
tiously cast  down;  but  Jeremy  fancied  that  he  could 
see  a  trace  of  slyness  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"Is  your  mistress  up,  my  child  ?"  the  Speaker  asked 
in  a  tone  of  indifferent  benevolence. 


THE  SPEAKER  107 

"I  believe  so,  sir,"  the  girl  answered. 

*'Then  tell  her  that  I  wish  to  present  to  her  the 
stranger  of  whom  she  has  heard." 

She  bowed  and  turned,  not  replying,  to  a  further 
door;  but  as  she  turned  she  raised  her  eyes  and  fixed 
them  on  Jeremy  with  a. frank,  almost  insolent  stare. 
Then,  without  pausing,  she  was  gone.  The  Speaker 
slipped  into  the  chair  she  had  left  and  drummed  ab- 
sently with  his  fingers  on  the  table.  When  the  girl 
returned  he  paid  hardly  any  attention  to  her  message 
that  the  Lady  Burney  was  ready  to  receive  them. 
A  fit  of  abstracticMi  seemed  to  have  settled  down  on 
him;  and  he  impatiently  waved  her  oji  one  side,  while 
he  drew  Jeremy  in  his  train. 

Jeremy  was  doubtful  how  he  ought  to  show  his 
respect  to  the  stout  and  ugly  woman  who  sat  on  her 
couch  in  this  room  with  an.  air  of  bovine  dissatisfac- 
tion. He  bowed  very  low  and  did  not,  apparently, 
increase  her  displeasure.  She  held  out  two  fingers  to 
him,  a  perplexing  action ;  but  it  seemed  from  the  stiff- 
ness of  her  arm  that  she  did  not  expect  him  to  kiss 
them.  He  shook  and  dropped  them  awkwardly  and 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  Then  he  was  able  to  ex- 
amine the  first  lady  of  England  and  her  surroundings, 
while,  with  much  less  interest  and  an  expression  of 
stupid  aloofness,  she  examined  him. 

She  was  dressed  in  the  same  manner  as  the  girl  who 
waited  in  the  ante- room,  though  her  gown  seemed  to 
be  of  silk,  and  was  much  more  richly  as  well  as  more 
garishly  embroidered.  It  struck  Jeremy  that  she  har- 
monized well  with  the  room  in  which  she  sat.  It  was 
filled  with,  ornaments,  cushions,  mats  and  woven  hang- 
ings of  a  coarse  and  gaudy  vulgarity;  and  the  wood- 
work on  the  walls  was  carved  and  gilded  in  the  style 


io8      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

of  a  florid  picture-frame.  The  occupant  of  this  tawdry 
magnificence  was  stout,  and  her  unwieldy  figure  was 
disagreeably  displayed  by  what  seemed  to  be  the  pre- 
vailing fashion  of  dress.  Her  cheeks  were  at  once 
puffy  and  lined  and  were  too  brilliantly  painted;  and 
the  lashes  of  her  dull,  heavy  eyes  were  extravagantly 
blackened.  Jeremy  hoped  that  his  attitude,  while  he 
noted  all  these  details,  was  sufificiently  respectful. 

It  must  have  satisfied  the  Lady  Burney,  for,  after 
a  long  pause,  she  observed  in  a  gracious  manner : 

"I  was  anxious  to  see  you.  Why  do  you  look  like 
everyone  else?  I  thought  your  clothes  would  have 
been  different." 

Jeremy  explained  that  he  had  been  clothed  anew 
so  that  he  should  not  appear  too  conspicuous.  She 
assented  with  a  movement  of  her  head  and  went  on: 

"It  would  have  been  more  interesting  to  see  you 

in   your   old    clothes.     Do    you — do    you "     She 

yawned  widely  and  gazed  round  the  room  with  vague 
eyes,  as  though  looking  for  the  rest  of  her  question. 
"Do  you  find  us  much  changed  ?"  she  finished  at  last. 

"Very  much  changed,  madam,"  Jeremy  replied  with 
gravity.  "So  much  changed  that  I  should  hardly  know 
how  to  begin  to  tell  you  what  the  changes  are." 

She  inclined  her  head  again,  as  though  to  indicate 
that  her  thirst  for  knowledge  was  satisfied.  At  this 
point  the  Speaker,  who  had  been  standing  behind  Jer- 
emy, silent  but  tapping  his  foot  on  the  ground,  broke 
in  abruptly. 

"Where  is  Eva?"  he  said. 

The  lady  looked  at  him  with  a  corpulent  parody  of 
reserv^e.  "She  has  just  come  in  from  riding.  Shall  I 
send,  for  her?"  The  Speaker  nodded,  and  then  seemed 
to  wave  away  a  question  in  her  eyes.     She  turned  to 


THE  SPEAKER  109 

Jeremy  and  murmured,  "The  bell  is  over  there." 
Jeremy  stared  at  her  a  moment,  puzzled ;  then,  fol- 
lowing the  direction  of  her  finger,  saw  hanging  on  the 
wall  an  old-fashioned  bell-pull.  Recovering  himself  a 
little  he  went  to  it,  tugged  at  it  gingerly,  and  so  sum- 
moned the  girl  who  sat  in  the  ante-room.  When  she 
came  in  he  saw  again  on  her  face  the  same  look  of 
frank  but  unimpressed  curiosity.  But  she  received 
her  orders  still  with  downcast  and  submissive  eyes  and 
departed  in  silence. 

Then  a  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  opened 
abruptly  and  gustily  inwards.  Jeremy  looked  towards 
it  with  interest,  saw  nothing  but  a  hand  still  holding 
it,  and,  dimly,  a  figure  in  the  opening  turned  away 
from  it.  He  heard  a  fresh,  cheerful  voice  giving  some 
parting  directions  to  an  invisible  person.  The  blood 
rose  suddenly  to  his  head  and  he  began  to  be  con- 
fused. He  waited  in  almost  an  agony  of  suspense 
for  the  Speaker's  daughter  to  turn  and  enter  the  room. 
He  had  indeed  experienced  disturbing  premonitions 
of  this  sort  before.  Now  and  again  it  had  happened 
in  the  life  of  his  own  lecture-rooms  and  of  his  friends 
studios,  that,  without  reason,  he  wondered  why  he  had 
been  so  immune  from  serious  love-sickness.  Now  and 
again,  like  a  child  with  a  penny  to  spend,  he  would 
take  his  bachelor  state  out  of  some  pocket  in  his 
thoughts,  turn  it  over  lovingly,  and  ask  himself  what 
he  should  do  with  it.  He  had  indeed  a  great  fear  of 
spending  it  rashly ;  but  often,  after  one  of  these  moods, 
the  mention  of  an  unknown  girl  he  was  to  meet  would 
set  his  heart  throbbing,  or  he  would  look  at  one  of 
his  pupils  or  one  of  his  friends  with  a  new  and  faintly 
pleasant  speculation  in  his  mind.  Yet  there  had  never 
been  anything  in  it.     He  had  had  one  flirtation  over 


no      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

test-tubes  and  balances,  ended  by  his  timely  discovery 
of  the  girl's  pretentious  ignorance  in  the  matter  of 
physics.  He  would  not  have  minded  her  being  igno- 
rant, but  he  was  repelled  when  he  thought  that  she  had 
baited  a  trap  for  him  with  a  show  of  knowledge. 
There  had  been  another  over  canvases  and  brushes. 
But  he  had  not  been  able  to  talk  with  enough  warmth 
about  the  fashions  of  art;  and,  before  he  had  made 
much  progress,  the  girl  had  found  another  lover  more 
glib  than  he — which  was,  he  reflected,  when  he  was 
better  of  his  infatuation  and  considered  the  kind  of 
picture  she  painted,  something  of  a  deliverance.  Now 
his  heart  was  absurdly  beating  at  the  approach  of  a 
princess — of  a  princess  who  was  nearly  two  hundred 
years  younger  than  himself! 

She  turned  and  came  into  the  room,  stopping  a  few 
paces  inside  and  staring  at  him  as  frankly  as  he  at  her. 
She  must  have  seen  in  him  at  that  moment  what  we 
see  in  the  house  where  a  great  man  was  born — a  house 
that  would  be  precisely  like  other  houses  if  we  knew 
nothing  alx»ut  it.  Or  did  her  defeated  curiosity  wake 
in  her  even  then  extraordinary  thoughts  about  this 
ordinary  young  man  ?  Jeremy's  mind  had  become"  too 
much  a  stage  set  for  a  great  event  for  him  to  get  any 
clear  view  of  the  reality.  But  he  received  an  impres- 
sion, ridiculously,  as  though  the  fine,  blowing,  tem- 
perate, sunshiny  day  he  had  seen  through  the  windows 
had  come  suddenly  into  his  presence.  And,  though 
this  tall,  straight-backed  girl,  with  her  wide,  frank 
eyes  and  all  the  beauty  of  health  and  youth,  had  plainly 
her  mother's  features,  distinguished  only  by  a  long 
difference  of  years,  he  guessed  somehow  in  her  ex- 
pression, in  her  pose,  something  of  the  father's  in- 
telligence. 


THE  SPEAKER  in 

The  pause  in  which  they  had  regarded  one  another 
lasted  hardly  ten  seconds.  "I  wanted  so  much  to 
see  you,"  she  cried  impulsively.    "My  maids  have  told 

me  all  about  you,  and  when  I  was  out  riding " 

She  stopped. 

The  Lady  Burney  frowned,  and  the  Speaker  asked 
in  a  slow,  dragging  voice,  as  though  constraining  him- 
self to  be  gentle,  "Whom  did  you  meet  when  you 
were  out  riding?" 

"Roger  Vaile,"  the  girl  answered,  with  a  faint  tone 
of  annoyed  defiance.  "And  he  told  me  how  he  came 
to  find  this  gentleman  yesterday." 

"I  am  very  much  in  his  debt,"  Jeremy  said.  "I 
suppose  he  saved  my  life." 

"You  should  not  be  too  grateful  to  him,"  the 
Speaker  interposed,  in  a  manner  almost  too  suave. 
"Any  man  that  found  you  must  have  done  what  he 
did.     You  are  not  to  exaggerate  your  debt  to  him." 

The  girl  laughed,  and  suppressed  her  laughter,  and 
again  the  Lady  Burney  frowned.  Jeremy,  scenting 
the  approach  of  a  family  quarrel  and  unwilling  to  wit- 
ness it,  spoke  quickly  and  at  random  in  the  hope  of 
relieving  the  situation:  "I  hope,  sir,  you  will  allow 
me  to  be  grateful  to  Mr.  Vaile,  who  was,  after  all, 
my  preserver,  and  treated  me  kindly." 

The  girl  laughed  again,  but  with  a  different  inten- 
tion. "Mister?"  she  repeated.  "What  does  that 
mean?" 

Jeremy  looked  at  her,  puzzled.  "Don't  you  call 
people  Mister  now?"  He  addressed  himself  directly 
to  her  and  abandoned  his  attempt  to  embrace  in  the 
conversation  the  Speaker,  who  was  trying  to  conceal 
some  mysteriously  caused  impatience,  and  the  Lady 


112      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

Bumey,  who  was  not  trying  at  all  to  conceal  her  petu- 
lant but  flaccid  displeasure. 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  equally  ignoring  them.  "We 
call  Roger  Vaile  so  because  he  is  a  gentleman.  If 
he  were  a  common  man  we  should  simply  call  him 
Vaile.  Did  you  call  gentlemen — what  was  it? — 
Mister,  in  your  time?"  Jeremy,  studying  her,  admir- 
ing the  poise  with  which  she  stood  and  noting  that, 
though  she  wore  the  narrow,  simply-cut  gown  of  the 
rest,  it  was  less  tortured  with  embroidery,  strove  to 
find  some  way  of  carrying  on  the  conversation  and 
suddenly  became  aware  that  there  was  some  silent 
but  acute  difference  between  the  Speaker  and  his  wife. 

"Eva !"  the  Lady  Burney  broke  in,  disregarding  her 
husband's  hand  half  raised  in  warning.  "Eva,"  she 
repeated  with  an  air  of  corpulent  and  feeble  stateli- 
ness,  "I  am  fed  up  with  your  behavior!" 

Jeremy  started  at  the  phrase  as  much  as  if  the  stupid, 
dignified  woman  had  suddenly  thrown  a  double  somer- 
sault before  him.  But  he  could  see  no  surprise  on  the 
faces  of  the  others,  only  unconcealed  annoyance  and 
alarm. 

"You  may  go,  Eva,"  the  Speaker  interposed  with 
evident  restraint.  "Jeremy  Tuft  is  to  be  our  guest, 
and  you  will  see  him  again.  He  has  much  to  learn, 
and  you  must  help  us  to  teach  him." 

The  girl,  as  though  some  hidden  circumstance  had 
been  brought  into  play,  instantly  composed  her  face 
and  bowed  deeply  and  ceremoniously  to  Jeremy.  He 
returned  the  bow  as  well  as  he  was  able,  and  had  hardly 
straightened  himself  again  before  she  had  left  the 
room. 

"I  am  fed  up  with  our  daughter's  behavior,"  the 
Lady  Burney  repeated,  rising.     "I  will  go  now  and 


THE  SPEAKER  113 

speak  to  her  alone."  Then  she  too  vanished,  ignoring 
alike  her  husband's  half-begun  remonstrance  and  Jer- 
emy's second  bow. 

It  was  with  some  amazement  that  Jeremy  found  him- 
self alone  again  with  the  old  man.  His  brain  stag- 
gered under  a  multitude  of  impressions.  The  astonish- 
ing locution  employed  by  the  great  lady  had  been 
hardly  respectable  in  his  own  day,  and  it  led  him  to 
consider  the  strange,  pleasant  accent  which  had  struck 
him  in  Roger  Vaile's  first  speech  and  which  was  so 
general  that  already  his  ear  accepted  it  as  unremark- 
able. Was  it,  could  it  be,  an  amazing  sublimation  of 
the  West  Essex  accent,  which  in  an  earlier  time  had 
been  known  as  Cockney?  Then  his  eye  fell  on  the 
silent,  now  drooping  figure  of  the  Speaker,  and  recalled 
him  to  the  odd  under-currents  of  the  family  scene  he 
had  just  beheld. 

"My  wife  comes  from  the  west,"  said  the  Speaker  in 
a  quiet,  tired  voice,  catching  his  glance,  "and  sometimes 
she  uses  old-fashioned  expressions  that  maybe  you 
would  not  understand  ...  or  perhaps  they  are  fa- 
miliar to  you.  .  .  .  But  tell  me,  how  would  a  father 
of  your  time  have  punished  Eva  for  her  behavior?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Jeremy  answered  uncomfortably. 
"I  don't  know  what  she  did  that  was  wrong." 

The  Speaker  smiled  a  little  sadly.  "Like  me,  she 
is  ...  is  unusual.  She  should  not  have  addressed 
you  first  or  taken  the  lead  so  much  in  speaking  to 
you.  I  fear  any  other  parent  would  have  her  whipped. 
But  I — "  his  voice  grew  a  little  louder,  "but  I  have 
allowed  her  to  be  brought  up  differently.  She  can 
read  and  write.  She  is  different  from  the  rest,  like  me 
.  .  .  and  like  you.  I  have  studied  to  let  her  be  so  .  .  . 
though  she  hardly  thinks  it  .  .  .  and  I  daresay  I  have 


114      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

not  done  all  I  should.  I  have  been  busy  with  other 
things  and  between  the  old  and  the  young  ...  I 
was  already  old  when  she  was  born — but  now  you  ..." 
His  voice  trailed  away  into  silence,  and  he  considered 
Jeremy  with  full,  expressionless  eyes.  At  last  he  said, 
"Come  with  me  and  I  will  make  arrangements  for  your 
reception  here.  In  a  few  days  I  shall  have  something 
to  show  you  and  I  shall  ask  your  help."  Jeremy  fol- 
lowed, his  mind  still  busy.  His  absurd  premonitions 
had  been  driven  away  by  tangled  speculations  on  all 
these  changes  in  manners  and  language. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   GUNS 


TOURING  the  days  that  immediately  followed,  the 
■■-^  Speaker  left  Jeremy  to  make  himself  at  home 
as  best  he  could  in  the  new  world.  For  a  time  Jeremy 
was  inclined  to  fear  that  by  a  single  obstinacy  he  had 
forfeited  the  old  man's  favor.  He  had  been  removed 
from  the  little  room  which  he  had  first  occupied  to 
another,  larger  and  more  splendidly  furnished,  near 
the  Speaker's  own  apartments.  But  he  had  pleaded, 
with  a  rather  obvious  confidence  in  his  right  to  insist, 
that  he  should  be  allowed  to  continue  his  friendship 
with  Roger  Vaile.  Some  obscure  loyalty  combined 
with  his  native  self-will  to  harden  him  in  this  desire; 
and  the  Speaker  was  displeased  by  it.  He  had  evi- 
dently had  some  other  companion  and  instructor  in 
mind. 

"The  young  man  is  brainless,  like  all  his  kind,"  he 
objected.     "You  will  get  no  good  from  him." 

"But  he  did  save  my  life.  Why  would  he  think  of 
me  if  I  forgot  him  now  ?" 

"No  man  could  have  done  less  for  you  than  he  did. 
You  ought  not  to  let  that  influence  you." 

The  wrangle  was  short  but  too  rapidly  grew  bitter. 
To  end  it  Jeremy  cried  with  a  gesture  of  half-humor- 
ous despair,  "Well,  at  least  he  is  my  oldest  living 
friend." 

"5 


fii6      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

The  Speaker  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  gave  way 
without  a  smile;  but  he  seemed  from  this  moment  to 
have  abandoned  him  to  the  company  he  thus  wilfully 
chose.  For  the  better  part  of  a  day  Jeremy  was  pleased 
by  his  deliverance  from  a  dangerous  and  uncomfort- 
able old  fanatic.  Thereafter  he  fell  to  wondering, 
with  growing  intensity,  what  were  now  his  chances 
of  meeting  again  with  the  Speaker's  daughter. 

When  he  rejoined  Roger  Vaile,  that  placid  young 
man  received  him  without  excitement,  and  informed 
him  that  they  might  spend  the  next  few  days  in  seeing 
the  sights  of  London.  Jeremy's  great  curiosity  an- 
swered this  suggestion  with  delight ;  and  in  his  earliest 
explorations  with  Roger  he  found  many  surprises 
within  a  small  radius.  The  first  were  in  the  great  gar- 
dens of  the  Treasury,  which,  so  far  as  he  could  make 
out,  in  the  absence  of  most  of  the  familiar  landmarks, 
took  in  all  St.  James's  Park,  as  well  as  what  had  been 
the  sites  of  Buckingham  Palace  and  Victoria  Station. 
Certainly,  as  he  rambled  among  them,  he  came  upon 
the  ruins  of  the  Victoria  Memorial,  much  battered 
and  weathered,  and  so  changed  in  aspect  by  time  and 
by  the  shrubs  which  grew  close  around  it  that  for  sev- 
eral moments  it  escaped  his  recognition. 

Outside  the  walls  of  the  Treasury  such  discoveries 
were  innumerable.  Jeremy  was  astonished  to  find 
alternately  how  much  and  how  little  he  remembered 
of  London,  how  much  and  how  little  had  survived. 
Westminster  Bridge,  looking  old  and  shaky,  still 
stood;  but  the  Embankment  was  getting  to-  be  disused, 
chiefly  on  account  of  a  great  breach  in  it,  how  caused 
Roger  could  not  tell  him,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Charing  Cross.  On  both  sides  of  this  breach  the  great 
men  who  owned  houses  in  Whitehall  and  the  Strand 


THE  GUNS  117 

were  beginning  to  push  their  gardens  down  to  the 
water's  edge.  Indeed,  as  Jeremy  learnt  by  his  own 
observation  and  by  dose  questioning  of  Roger,  the 
growth  of  huge  gardens  was  one  of  the  conspicuous 
signs  of  the  age. 

There  existed,  it  seemed,  an  aristocracy  of  some 
wealth  descended  mostly  from  those  supporters  of  the 
first  and  second  Speakers  who  had  taken  their  part  in 
putting  down  the  Reds  and  restoring  order  more  than 
a  hundred  years  before.  Where  one  of  the  old  ruling 
families,  great  land-owners,  great  manufacturers,  or 
great  financiers  had  possessed  a  member  of  resolute 
and  combative  disposition,  it  had  survived  to  resume 
its  place  in  the  new  state.  The  rest  were  descendants 
of  obscure  soldiers  of  fortune.  This  class,  of  which 
Roger  Vaile  was  an  inconsiderable  cadet,  owned  vast 
estates  in  some,  though  not  in  all,  parts  of  the  country. 
Here  and  there,  as  Jeremy  surmised,  where  small- 
holders and  market-gardeners  had  taken  a  firm  grip, 
the  landowning  class  had  little  power.  But  elsewhere 
it  was  strong,  and  drew  great  revenues  from  the  soil, 
from  corn,  from  tobacco,  and  from  wool. 

These  revenues  were  spent  by  the  ruling  families — 
Roger  called  them  "the  big  men" — in  enlarging  the 
gardens  of  their  houses  in  London.  They  cared  little 
to  build.  Houses  stood  in  plenty,  many  even  now  un- 
claimed. But  gradually  the  deserted  houses  were 
pulled  down,  their  materials  carted  away  and  their 
sites  elaborately  planted.  Jeremy  walked  in  a  great 
shrubbery  of  rhododendrons  where  Charing  Cross 
Station  had  been  and  in  a  rose-garden  over  the  deep- 
buried  foundations  of  Scotland  Yard.  He  observed 
that  this  fashion,  which  was  becoming  a  mania,  was 
creating  again  the  old  distinction  between  the  City  of 


ii8      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

London,  which  was  still  a  trading  center,  and  the  City 
of  Westminster,  which  was  still  the  seat  of  govern- 
ment, although  a  revolutionary  mob  of  somewhat  doc- 
trinaire inclinations  had  burnt  down  the  Houses  of 
Parliament  quite  early  in  the  Troubles, 

These  excursions  fascinated  Jeremy,  and  he  endeav- 
ored to  make  them  useful  by  cross-examining  Roger, 
as  they  walked  about  together,  on  the  condition  of 
society.  But  that  typical  man  of  far  from  self-con- 
scious age  had  only  scanty  information  to  give.  Even 
on  the  government  of  the  country  he  was  vague  and 
unsatisfactory,  though,  when  he  had  nothing  better  to 
do,  he  worked  with  the  other  clerks  on  the  Speaker's 
business.  Jeremy  sometimes  saw  him  and  his  com- 
panions at  work,  copying  documents  in  a  laborious 
round-hand  or  making  entries  in  a  great  leather-bound 
and  padlocked  ledger.  He  felt  often  inclined  to  re- 
introduce into  a  profession  which  had  forgotten  it  the 
blessed  principle  of  the  card  index;  but,  after  consid- 
eration, he  abstained  from  complicating  this  idyllically 
simple  bureaucracy.  Besides,  there  was  no  need  for 
labor-saving  devices.  Clerks  swarmed  in  the  Treas- 
ury. A  few  years  in  the  Speaker's  service  was  the 
proper  occupation  for  a  young  man  of  good  family 
who  was  beginning  life;  and  the  tasks  which  it  in- 
volved weighed  on  them  lightly. 

The  business  of  government  was  not  elaborate  or 
complex.  Apparently  the  provinces  looked  very  much 
after  themselves  under  the  direction  of  a  medley  of 
authorities,  whose  titles  and  powers  Jeremy  could 
by  no  means  compose  into  a  system.  He  heard 
vaguely  of  two  potentates,  prominent  among  the  rest 
and  typical  of  them,  the  Chairman  of  Bradford,  who 
seemed  responsible  for  a  great  part  of  the  north,  and 


THE  GUNS  119' 

the  President  of  Wales,  who  had  a  palace  at  Cardiff. 
Jeremy  guessed  that  the  titles  of  these  "big  men"  had 
survived  from  all  sorts  of  "big  men"  of  his  own  time. 
The  Chairman  of  Bradford  for  example  might  in- 
herit his  power  from  the  chairman  of  some  vanished 
revolutionary  or  reactionary  committee,  or  perhaps 
even,  since  he  was  concerned  in  a  peculiar  way  with 
the  great  weaving  trade  of  Yorkshire,  from  that  of  an 
employers'  federation  or  a  conciliation  board.  The 
President  of  Wales,  whose  relations  with  his  tough, 
savage,  uncouth  miners  were  unusual,  Jeremy  sus- 
pected of  being  the  successor  of  a  trade  union  leader. 
The  names  and  figures  of  these  men  lingered  obscurely, 
powerfully,  menacingly  in  his  mind.  The  Speaker 
rarely  interfered  with  them  so  long  as  they  collected 
his  taxes  regularly  and  with  an  approach  to  com- 
pleteness. And  his  taxes  were  moderate,  for  the  pub- 
lic services  were  not  exigent. 

Jeremy  caught  a  glimpse  of  one  of  these  public 
services  one  day  when  Roger  was  taking  him  on  a 
longer  expedition  than  usual,  to  see  the  great  north- 
western quarter  of  old  London.  This  district  was  one 
of  the  largest  of  those  which,  by  some  freak  of  chance, 
had  escaped  fire  and  bombardment  and  had  been 
merely  deserted,  left  to  rot  and  collapse  as  they  stood.' 
Jeremy  was  anxious  to  examine  this  curiosity,  and 
pressed  Roger  to  take  him  there.  It  was  when  they 
were  walking  between  the  venerable  and  dangerously 
leaning  buildings  of  Regent  Street  that  they  passed  a 
column  of  brown-clad  men  on  the  march. 

"Soldiers!"  cried  Jeremy,  and  paused  to  watch  them 
go  by. 

"Yes,  soldiers,"  Roger  murmured  with  a  smile  of 
good-natured  contempt,   trying  to   draw  him   along. 


120      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

But  Jeremy's  curiosity  had  been  aroused.  He  sud- 
denly remembered,  and  then  closed  his  lips  on  an  enig- 
matical remark  which  the  Speaker  had  made  about 
guns;  and  he  insisted  on  staying  where  he  was  until 
the  regiment  had  gone  out  of  sight.  Their  uniforms, 
an  approximation  to  khaki,  yet  of  a  different  shade, 
their  rifles,  clumsy  and  antiquated  in  appearance,  their 
feet  wrapped  in  rags  and  shod  with  raw-hide  sandals, 
combined  with  their  shambling,  half-ashamed,  half- 
sulky  carriage  to  give  them  the  air  of  a  parody  on  the 
infantry  of  the  Great  War. 

"Whom  do  they  fight?"  he  askd  abstractedly,  still 
standing  and  gazing  after  them. 

"No  one,"  Roger  answered,  with  the  same  expres- 
sion of  contemptuous  tolerance.  "They  are  good  for 
nothing ;  there  has  been  no  war  in  England  for  a  hun- 
dred years." 

"But  are  there  no  foreign  wars?" 

"None  that  concern  us."  And  Roger  went-  on  to 
explain  in  an  uninterested  and  scrappy  manner  that 
there  was  always  fighting  somewhere  on  the  Continent, 
that  the  Germans  and  the  Russians  and  the  Polish  were 
forever  at  one  another's  throats,  that  the  Italians 
could  not  live  at  peace  with  one  another  or  with  their 
neighbors  on  the  Adriatic,  and  that  the  peoples  of 
Eastern  Europe  seemed  bent  on  mutual  extermination. 
"But  we  never  interfere,"  he  said.  "It  isn't  our  busi- 
ness, though  sometimes  the  League  tries  to  make  out 
that  it  is.  And  we  need  no  army.  It's  a  fad  of  the 
Speaker's,  though  he  could  always  get  Canadians  i£^ 
he  wanted  them." 

"The  League?  Canadians?"  Jeremy  interjected. 

"Yes;  the  Canadian  bosses  hire  out  armies  when 
atiy  one  wants  them.     They  do  say  that  that  ruffian 


THE  GUNS  121 

who  is  staying  with  the  Speaker  came  over  for  some 
such  reason.  But  I  can't  see  why  we  should  want 
Canadians." 

"But  you  said  .  .  .  something  .  .  .  the  League?" 

"Oh,  the  old  League!"  Roger  answered  carelessly. 
"Surely  that  existed  in  your  time,  didn't  it?  I  mean 
the  League  of  Nations."  And,  as  Jeremy  said  noth- 
ing, he  continued  :  "You  know,  they  sit  at  Geneva  and 
tell  every  one  how  to  manage  his  own  affairs.  We 
take  no  notice  of  them,  except  that  we  send  them  a 
contribution  every  year.  And  I  don't  know  why  we 
should  do  even  that.  The  officials  are  always  all  Ger- 
mans .    .    i   so  close,  you  know.    ..." 

Jeremy  fell  into  a  profound  reverie,  out  of  which  he 
presently  emerged  to  ask,  -"Does  your  army  have  any 
guns  .  .  .  cannon,  I  mean?" 

Roger  shook  his  head.  "You  mean  the  sort  of  big 
gun  that  used  to  throw  exploding  shells.  No;  I  don't 
believe  there's  such  a  thing  left  in  the  world.  I  never 
heard  of  one." 

In  order  to  draw  Jeremy  away  from  his  meditations 
in  Regent  Street,  Roger  had  taken  him  by  the  elbow, 
and  from  that  had  slipped  his  arm  into  Jeremy's  own. 
They  walked  along  together  in  an  amicable  silence. 
Unexpected  and  violent  events  had  drawn  these  two 
young  men  into  a  friendship  which  otherwise  they 
would  never  have  chosen,  but  which  was  perhaps  not 
more  arbitrary  and  not  less  real  than  the  love  of  the 
mother  for  the  child.  Though  their  minds  were  so 
dissimilar,  yet  Jeremy  felt  a  sort  of  confidence  and 
familiarity  in  Roger's  presence;  and  Roger  took  a 
queer  pride  in  Jeremy's  existence. 

The  district  into  which  they  entered  when  they  got 
beyond  the  wilderness  that  had  been  Regent's  Park 


122      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

was  a  singular  and  striking  reminder  of  the  time  when 
London  was  a  great  and  populous  city.  Every  stage 
of  desolation  and  decay  was  to  be  seen  in  that  ap- 
palling tract,  which  had  lost  the  trimness  and  pros- 
perity of  its  flourishing  period  without  acquiring  the 
solemn  and  awful  aspect  O'f  nobler  ruins.  Every 
scrap  of  wood  and  metal  had  long  been  torn  from  these 
slowly  perishing  houses.  Some  had  collapsed  into 
their  own  cellars  and  were  gradually  being  covered 
over.  Some,  which  had  been  built  of  less  enduring 
bricks,  seemed  merely  to  have  melted,  leaving  only 
faint  irregularities  on  the  surface  of  the  ground. 
Others  stood  gaunt  and  crazily  leaning,  with  ragged 
staring  gaps  where  the  windows  had  been.  Even  as 
they  passed  one  of  these  they  heard  the  resounding  col- 
lapse of  a  wall  they  could  not  see,  while  the  outer 
walls  heaved  visibly  nearer  to  ruin. 

And  here  and  there  enterprising  squatters  had 
cleared  large  spaces,  joining  up  the  old  villa-gardens 
into  fair-sized  fields.  These  people  lived  in  rude  huts, 
made  of  old  timbers  and  rough  heaps  of  brickwork,  in 
corners  of  their  clearings.  Some  distaste  or  horror 
seemed  to  keep  them  from  the  empty  houses  in  the 
shadow  of  which  they  dwelt.  Jeremy  saw  in  the  fields 
bowed  laborious  figures  wrapped  in  rags  which  for- 
bade him  to  say  whether  they  were  men  or  women, 
and  troops  of  dirty,  half-naked  children.  Roger  fol- 
lowed the  direction  of  his  glance  and  said  that  the 
squatters  among  the  deserted  houses  were  people  little 
better  than  savages,  who  could  not  get  work  in  the 
agricultural  districts  or  had  mutinously  deserted  their 
proper  employers. 

Jeremy  shuddered  and  went  on  without  replying.. 


THE  GUNS  123 

The  plan  of  these  old  streets  was  still  recognizable 
enough  for  him  to  lead  the  way,  as  if  in  a  dream, 
through  St.  John's  Wood  to  Swiss  Cottage.  Here 
they  had  to  scramble  across  a  tumbled  ravine,  which 
was  all  that  was  left  of  the  Metropolitan  Railway, 
and  up  the  steep  rise  of  Fitz John's  Avenue  to  the  Httle 
village  of  Hampstead  clinging  isolated  on  the  edge  of 
the  hill.  As  they  came  into  the  village,  Jeremy  drew 
Roger  into  a  side-track  which  he  recognized,  from  one 
drooping  Georgian  house  standing  lonely  there,  as 
what  he  had  known  under  the  name  of  Church  Row. 
The  church  remained,  and  beyond  it  Jeremy  could  see 
a  farm  half -hidden  among  trees.  But  he  went  no 
further.  He  turned  his  face  abruptly  southwards  and 
stayed,  gazing  across  London  in  that  moment  of  per- 
fect clearness  which  sometimes  precedes  the  twilight 
of  early  summer. 

For  a  moment,  what  he  saw  seemed  to  be  what 
he  had  always  known.  At  this  distance  the  slope  be- 
low seemed  still  to  be  covered  with  houses,  and  showed 
none  of  the  hideousness  of  their  decay.  Farther  out, 
in  the  valley,  rose  the  spires  and  towers  of  innumer- 
able churches,  and  beyond  them  came  the  faint  blue 
line  of  the  Surrey  hills.  But  as  he  gazed  he  reaHzed 
suddenly  the  greater  purity  of  the  air,  the  greater 
beauty  of  the  view.  London  blackened  no  longer  all 
the  heaven  above  it,  and  the  green  gaps  in  the  waste 
of  buildings  were  larger  and  greener.  Almost  he 
thought  he  saw  a  silver  line  where  the  Thames  should 
have  been;  but  perhaps  he  imagined  this,  though  he 
knew  that  the  river  was  no  longer  dark  and  foul. 

In  his  joy  and  contentment  at  the  lovely  scene  he 
began  to  speak  to  Roger  in  a  rapt,  dreamy  voice,  as 


124      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

though  he  were  indeed  the  mouthpiece  and  messenger 
of  a  less  fortunate  time.  "You  are  happier  than  we 
were,"  he  said,  "though  you  are  poorer.  Your  air 
is  clean,  you  have  room,  you  live  at  peace,  you  have 
time  to  live.  But  we  were  forced  to  live  in  thick, 
smoky  air;  we  fought  and  quarreled,  and  disputed. 
The  more  difficult  our  lives  became,  the  less  time  we 
had  for  them.  This  age  seems  to  me,"  he  continued, 
wanning  to  his  subject  and  ignoring  Roger's  placid 
silence,  "like  a  man  who  has  been  walking  at  full 
speed  on  a  long  dusty  road,  only  trying  to  see  how 
many  miles  he  can  cover  in  a  day.  Suddenly  he  grows 
exhausted  and  stops.  I  have  done  it.  I  can  remember 
how  delicious  it  was  to  lie  down  in  a  field  off  the 
road,  to  let  the  business  all  go,  not  to  care  where  one 
got  to  or  when.  It  was  this  peacefulness  we  should 
have  been  aiming  at  all  the  time,  only  we  never 
knew.  .  .  ."  Roger's  silence  at  last  stopped  him, 
and  he  turned  to  see  what  his  companion  was  think- 
ing. The  expression  of  trouble  on  Roger's  face 
brought  up  a  question  on  his  own. 

"It  has  just  occurred  to  me,"  Roger  said  slowly  and 
reluctantly,  "that  it  will  be  quite  dark  before  we  can 
get  through  all  those  houses.  ..."  He  paused  and 
shivered  slightly.     "I  don't  quite  like   ..." 

They  set  off  homewards,  and  darkness  overtook 
them  in  the  middle  of  Finchley  Road.  Roger  did  not 
speak  again  of  his  fears.  Jeremy  could  not  determine 
whether  they  were  of  violent  men  or  of  dead  men. 
But  he  felt  their  presence.  Roger  hardly  spoke  or 
listened  until  they  were  once  again  in  inhabited  streets. 

It  was  on  the  following  morning  that  the  Speaker 
again  sent  for  Jeremy. 


THE  GUNS  ii25: 


Jeremy  answered  the  second  summons  with  a  little 
excitement  but  with  a  heart  more  at  rest  than  on  the 
first  occasion.  He  found  the  Speaker  leaning  at  his 
open  window,  his  head  thrust  out,  his  foot  tapping 
restlessly  on  the  ground.  It  was  some  moments  be- 
fore the  abstracted  old  man  would  take  any  notice 
of  his  visitor.  When  he  did  so,  he  turned  round  with 
an  air  of  restless  and  forced  geniality. 

"Well,  Jeremy  Tuft,"  he  cried,  rubbing  his  hands 
together,  "and  have  you  learnt  much  from  your 
friend?" 

Jeremy  replied  stolidly  that  Roger  had  answered 
one  way  or  another  all  the  questions  he  had  had  time 
to  ask.  Some  instinct  kept  him  to  his  not  very  candid 
stubbornness.  He  was  not  going  to  be  bullied  into 
deserting  Roger,  of  whose  intellectual  gifts  he  had 
nevertheless  no  very  high  opinion. 

But  the  Speaker  nodded  without  apparent  dis- 
pleasure. "And  now  you  know  all  about  our  affairs?" 
he  enquired. 

Jeremy,  still  stolidly,  shook  his  head  but  made  no 
other  answer.  The  Speaker  suddenly  changed  his 
manner  and,  coming  close  to  Jeremy,  took  him  caress- 
ingly by  the  arm.  "I  know  you  don't,"  he  murmured 
in  a  voice  full  of  cajolery.  "But  tell  me — you  must 
have  seen  enough  of  our  people — what  do  you  think 
of  them?  What  do  you  think  can  be  done  with  them?" 
He  leant  slightly  back  and  regarded  the  silent  young 
man  with  an  expression  of  infinite  cunning.  Then, 
as  he  got  no  response,  he  went  on :  "Tell  me,  what 
would  you  do  if  you  were  in  my  place — you,  a  man 


126      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

rich  with  all  the  knowledge  of  a  wiser  time  than  this? 
How  would  you  begin  to  make  things  better?" 

"I  don't  know.  ...  I  don't  know.  .  .  ." 
Jeremy  cried  at  last,  almost  pathetically.  "I  can't 
make  these  people  out  at  all."  And,  with  that,  he  felt 
restored  in  his  mind  the  former  consciousness  of  an 
intellectual  kinship  between  him  and  the  old  Jew. 

But  the  Speaker  continued  with  his  irritating  air  of 
a  ripe  man  teasing  a  green  boy.  "You  remember  the 
time  when  the  whole  world  was  full  of  the  marvels 
of  science.  We  suffered  misfortune,  and  all  the  wise 
men,  all  the  scientists,  perished.  But  by  a  miracle  you 
have  survived.  Can  you  not  restore  for  us  all  the 
civilization  of  your  own  age?" 

ji  Jeremy  frowned  and  answered  hesitatingly.  "How 
can  I?  What  could  I  do  by  myself?  And  anyway,  I 
was  only  a  physicist.  I  know  something  about  wireless 
telegraphy.  .  .  .  But  then  I  could  do  nothing  without 
materials,  and  at  best  precious  little  single-handed." 
He  meditated  explaining  just  how  much  one  man  could 
know  of  the  working  of  twentieth-century  machinery, 
opened  his  mouth  again  and  then  closed  it.  He 
strongly  suspected  that  the  Speaker  was  merely  fenc- 
ing with  him.     He  felt  vaguely  irritated  and  alone. 

The  old  man  dropped  Jeremy's  arm,  spun  his  great 
bulk  round  on  his  heel  with  surprising  lightness  and 
paced  away  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  There  he 
stood  apparently  gazing  with  intent  eyes  into  a  little 
mirror  which  hung  on  the  wall.  Jeremy  stayed  where 
he  had  been  left,  forlorn,  perplexed,  hopeless,  staring 
with  no  expectation  of  an  answer  at  those  huge,  bowed, 
enigmatic  shoulders.  He  was  almost  at  the  point  of 
screaming  aloud  when  the  Speaker  turned  and  said 
seriously  with  great  deliberation : 


THE  GUNS  127 

"Well,  I  am  going  to  show  you  something  that  you 
have  not  seen,  something  that  not  more  than  twenty 
persons  know  of  besides  myself.  And  you  are  going 
to  see  it  because  I  trust  you  to  be  loyal  to  me,  to  be  my 
man.  Do  you  understand?"  He  did  not  wait  for 
Jeremy's  doubtful  nod,  but  abruptly  jerked  the  bell- 
pull  on  the  wall.  When  this  was  done  they  waited 
together  in  silence.  A  servant  answered  the  summons ; 
and  the  Speaker  said :  "My  carriage."  The  carriage 
was  announced.  The  silence  continued  unbroken 
while  they  settled  themselves  in  it,  in  the  little  en- 
closed courtyard  that  had  once  been  Downing  Street. 
It  was  not  until  they  were  jolting  over  the  ruts  of 
Whitehall  that  Jeremy  said,  almost  timidly: 

"Where  are  we  going?" 

"To  Waterloo,"  the  Speaker  answered,  so  brusquely 
that  Jeremy  was  deterred  from  asking  more,  and 
leant  back  by  his  companion  to  muster  what  patience 
he  could. 

He  had  already  been  to  Waterloo  under  Roger's 
guidance.  It  was  the  station  for  the  few  lines  of  rail- 
way that  still  served  the  south  of  England;  and  they 
had  gone  there  to  see  the  train  come  in  from  Dover. 
But  it  had  been  so  late  that  Roger  had  refused  to  wait 
any  longer  for  it,  though  Jeremy  had  been  anxious 
to  do  so.  They  had  seen  nothing  but  an  empty  sta- 
tion, dusty  and  silent.  At  one  platform  an  engine  had 
stood  useless  so  long  that  its  wheels  seemed  to  have 
been  rusted  fast  to  the  metals.  Close  by  a  careless 
or  unfortunate  driver  had  charged  the  buffers  at  full 
speed  and  crashed  into  the  masonry  beyond.  The 
bricks  were  torn  up  and  piled  in  heaps;  but  the  raw 
edges  were  long  weathered,  and  some  of  them  were 
beginning  to  be  covered  with  moss.     The  old  glass 


128      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

roof,  which  he  remembered,  was  gone  and  the  whole 
station  lay  open  to  the  sky.  Pools  from  a  recent 
shower  glistened  underfoot.  Here  and  there  a  work- 
men sat  idle  and  yawning  on  a  bench  or  lay  fast  asleep 
on  a  pile  of  sacks. 

This  picture  returned  vividly  to  Jeremy  as  he  rode 
by  the  Speaker's  side.  It  seemed  to  him  the  fit  symbol 
of  an  age  which  had  loosened  its  grip  on  civilization, 
which  cared  no  longer  to  mend  what  time  or  chance 
had  broken,  which  did  not  care  even  to  put  a  new 
roof  over  Waterloo  Station.  He  reflected  again,  as 
he  thought  of  it,  that  perhaps  it  did  not  much  matter, 
that  the  grip  on  civilization  had  been  painfully  hard 
to  maintain,  that  there  was  something  to  be  said  for 
sleeping  on  a  pile  of  sacks  in  a  sound  part  of  the 
station  instead  of  repairing  some  other  part  of  it. 
"We  wretched  ants,"  he  told  himself,  "piled  up  more 
stuff  than  we  could  use,  and  though  the  mad  people 
of  the  Troubles  wasted  it,  yet  the  ruins  are  enough 
for  this  race  to  live  in  for  centuries.  And  aren't  they 
more  sensible  than  we  were?  Why  shouldn't  human- 
ity retire  from  business  on  its  savings?  If  only  it  had 
done  it  before  it  got  that  nervous  breakdown  from 
overwork !" 

He  was  aroused  by  the  carriage  lurching  into  the 
uneven  slope  of  the  approach.  The  squalor  that  had 
once  surrounded  the  great  terminus  had  withered,  like 
the  buildings  of  the  station  itself,  into  a  sort  of  miti- 
gated and  quiescent  ugliness.  As,  at  the  Speaker's 
gesture,  he  descended  from  the  carriage,  he  saw  a 
young  tree  pushing  itself  with  serene  and  graceful 
indifference  through  the  tumbled  ruins  of  what  had 
once  been  an  unlovely  lodging-house.  A  hot  sun  beat 
down  on  and  was  gradually  dispelling  a  thin  morning. 


THE  GUNS  129 

haze.  It  gilded  palely  the  gaunt,  harsh  lines  of  the 
station  that  generations  of  weathering  could  never 
make  beautiful. 

The  Speaker,  still  resolutely  silent,  led  the  way  in- 
side, where  their  steps  echoed  hollowly  in  the  empty 
hall.  But  the  echoes  were  suddenly  disturbed  by  an- 
other sound ;  and,  as  they  turned  a  corner  Jeremy  was 
enchanted  to  see  a  long  train  crawling  slowly  into  the 
platform.  It  slackened  speed,  blew  off  steam  with  ap- 
palling abruptness  and  force,  and  came  to  a  standstill 
before  it  had  completely  pulled  in.  Jeremy  could  see 
two  little  figures  leaping  from  the  cab  of  the  engine 
and  running  about  aimlessly  on  the  platform,  half 
hidden  by  the  still  belching  clouds  of  steam. 

"Another  breakdown!"  the  Speaker  grunted  with 
sudden  ferocity ;  and  he  turned  his  face  slightly  to  one 
side  as  though  it  pained  him  to  see  the  crippled  engine. 
Jeremy  would  have  liked  to  go  closer,  but  dared  not 
suggest  it.  Instead  he  dragged,  like  a  loitering  child, 
a  yard  or  two  behind  his  formidable  companion  and 
gazed  eagerly  at  the  distant  wreaths  of  steam.  But 
he  only  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  few  passengers  sitting 
patiently  on  heaps  of  luggage  or  on  the  ground,  as 
though  they  were  well  used  to  such  delays  in  embarka- 
tion. He  ran  after  his  guide,  who  had  now  passed  the 
disused  locomotive  rusted  to  the  rails,  and  was  striding 
along  the  platform  and  down  the  slope  at  the  end, 
into  a  wilderness  of  crossing  metals.  Here  and  there 
in  this  desert  could  be  seen  a  track  bright  with  recent 
use;  but  it  was  long  since  many  of  them  had  known 
the  passage  of  a  train.  In  some  cases  only  streaks  of 
red  in  the  earth  or  sleepers  almost  rotted  to  nothing 
showed  where  the  line  had  been.  They  passed  a  sig- 
nal-box :  a  man  sat  placidly  smoking  at  the  top  of  the 


130      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

steps  outside  the  open  door.  They  went  on  furthec 
into  the  desolation  that  surrounds  a  great  station,  here 
made  more  horrible  by  the  absence  of  movement,  by 
the  pervading  air  of  ruin  and  decay. 

When  they  had  walked  a  few  hundred  yards  from 
the  end  of  the  platform,  they  came  to  a  group  of  build- 
ings, which,  in  spite  of  their  dilapidation,  had  about 
them  a  certain  appearance  of  still  being  used.  "The 
repairing  sheds,"  said  the  Speaker,  pointing  through 
an  open  door  to  a  group  of  men  languidly  active  round 
what  looked  like  a  small  shunting-engine.  Then  he 
entered  a  narrow  passage  between  two  buildings. 

As  they  went  down  this  defile,  a  noise  of  hammering 
and  another  noise  like  that  of  a  furnace  grew  louder 
and  louder;  and  at  the  end  of  the  passage  there  was  a 
closed  door.  The  Speaker  paused  and  looked  at  Jer- 
emy with  a  doubtful  expression,  as  though  for  the 
last  time  weighing  his  loyalty.  Then  he  seized  a  hang- 
ing chain  and  pulled  it  vigorously.  A  bell  clanged, 
harsh  and  melancholy,  inside  the  building.  Before  the 
last  grudging  echoes  had  died  away,  there  was  a  rat- 
tling of  bolts  and  bars,  and  the  door  was  opened  to 
the  extent  of  about  a  foot.  An  old  man  in  baggy, 
blue  overalls,  with  dirty,  white  hair,  and  a  short,  white 
beard,  stood  in  the  opening,  blinking  suspiciously  at 
the  intruders. 

He  stood  thus  a  minute  in  a  hostile  attitude,  ready 
to  leap  back  and  slam  the  door  to  again.  But  all  at 
once  his  expression  changed,  he  shouted  something 
over  his  shoulder  and  became  exceedingly  respectful. 
As  Jeremy  followed  the  Speaker  past  him  into  the 
black  interior  of  the  shed  he  bowed  and  muttered  a 
thick  incoherent  welcome  in  a  tongue  which  was  hardly 


THE  GUNS  131 

recognizable  as  English,  so  strange  were  its  broad 
and  drawling  sounds. 

Inside,  huge  shapes  of  machinery  were  confused 
with  thick  shadows,  which  jerked  spasmodically  at 
the  light  from  an  open  furnace.  It  was  some  moments 
before  Jeremy  got  the  proper  use  of  his  eyes  in  the 
murky  air  of  the  shed.  When  he  did  he  received  an 
extraordinary  impression.  A  group  of  old  men,  all 
in  the  same  baggy  blue  overalls  as  the  first  who  opened 
the  door,  had  turned  to  greet  them  and  were  bowing 
and  shuffling  in  an  irregular  and  comical  rhythm." 
Round  the  walls  the  obscure  pieces  of  mechanism  re- 
solved themselves  into  all  the  appurtenances  of  a 
foundry,  hammers,  lathes  and  machines  for  making 
castings,  in  every  stage  of  neglect  and  disrepair,  some 
covered  with  dust,  some  immovably  rusted,  some  tilted 
drunkenly  on  their  foundation  plates,  some  still  ap- 
parently capable  of  use.  And  behind  the  gang  of  old 
men,  raised  on  trestles  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  were 
two  long  and  sinister  tubes  of  iron. 

The  Speaker  stood  on  one  side,  fixing  on  Jeremy 
a  look  of  keen  and  exultant  enquiry.  Jeremy  advanced 
towards  the  two  tubes,  a  word  rising  to  his  tongue. 
He  had  not  taken  two  steps  before  he  was  certain, 

"Guns !"  he  whispered  in  a  tense  and  startled  voice. 

"Guns!"  replied  the  Speaker,  not  repressing  an  ac- 
cent of  triumph. 

Jeremy  went  on  and  the  old  men  shuffled  on  one  side 
to  make  way  for  him,  clucking  with  mingled  agitation 
and  pride.  He  examined  the  guns  with  the  eye  of  an 
expert,  ran  his  fingers  over  them,  peered  down  the 
barrels,  and  rose  with  a  nod  of  satisfaction.  They 
seemed  to  be  wire-wound,  rifled,  breech-loading  guns, 
of   which  only  the  breech  mechanism  was  missing. 


132      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

They  resembled  very  closely  the  sixty-pounders  of  his 
own  experience,  though  they  were  somewhat  smaller. 
When  the  breech  mechanism  was  supplied,  they  would 
be  efficient  and  deadly  weapons  of  a  kind  that  he  well 
knew  how  to  handle. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE   LADY  EVA 


THE  Speaker's  reception  was  a  gorgeous  and 
tedious  assembly,  held  in  the  afternoon  for  the 
better  convenience  of  a  society  which  had  but  indif- 
ferent resources  in  the  way  of  artificial  light.  A  great 
hall  in  the  Treasury  had  been  prepared  for  it;  and 
here  the  "big  men,"  and  their  wives  and  sons  and 
daughters,  showed  themselves,  paid  their  respects  to 
the  Speaker  and  to  the  Lady  Burney,  paraded  a  little, 
gathered  into  groups  for  conversation,  at  last  took, 
their  leave. 

Jeremy  walked  through  the  crowd  at  the  Speaker's 
elbow  and  was  presented  by  him  to  the  most  important 
of  the  guests.  This  was  a  mark  of  favor,  of  recogni- 
tion, almost  of  adoption.  He  had  at  first  been  afraid 
of  it  and  had  wished  to  avoid  it.  But  the  Speaker's  de- 
termination was  unalterable. 

"If  it  were  nothing  more,"  he  said,  with  a  con- 
temptuous smile  on  his  heavy  but  mobile  mouth,  "I 
shall  be  giving  them  pleasure  by  exhibiting  you.  You 
are  a  show,  a  curiosity  to  them.  They  are  all  longing 
to  see  you — once.  .  .  .  Only  you  and  I  know  that 
you  are  something  more.  And  to  know  it  pleases  me; 
I  hope  it  pleases  you." 

This  explanation  hardly  reconciled  Jeremy  to  the 

133 


134      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

ordeal;  but  the  Speaker  had  easily  overborne  his 
reluctance.  They  walked  through  the  room  together, 
a  couple  strangely  unlike;  and  the  old  man  showed 
towards  the  younger  all  the  tenderness,  all  the  proud 
complaisances   of   a   father  to  a  son. 

From  this  post  of  vantage  Jeremy  could  at  least 
see  all  that  was  to  be  seen.  The  assembly  seemed  to 
be  gay  and  animated.  The  men  wore  the  dress  of 
ceremony,  the  latter-day  version  of  evening  dress;  and 
some  of  them,  especially  the  more  youthful,  were 
daring  in  the  colors  of  their  coats  and  in  the  bravado 
of  lace  at  throat  and  breast  and  wrist.  The  women 
wore  more  elaborate  forms  of  the  gown  of  every  day, 
simply  cut  in  straight  lines,  descending  to  the  heel  and 
tortuously  ornamented  with  embroideries  in  violent 
colors.  Jeremy  saw  one  stout  matron  who  was  cov- 
ered from  neck  to  shoes  in  a  pattern  of  blowsy  roses 
and  fat  yellow  butterflies,  like  a  wall-paper  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  another  whose  embroidery  took 
the  shape  of  zigzag  stripes  of  crimson,  blue  and  green, 
adjoining  on  the  bodice,  separated  on  the  skirt. 

But  he  was  impressed  by  a  certain  effect  of  good 
breeding  which  their  behavior  produced  and  which 
contradicted  his  first  opinion,  based  on  the  strange- 
ness of  their  dress.  They  nodded  to  him  (for  the 
shaking  of  hands  had  gone  quite  out  of  fashion), 
stared  at  him  a  little,  asked  a  colorless  question  or  two, 
murmured  politely  on  his  reply,  and  drifted  away  from 
him.  Where  he  expected  crudity  and  vulgarity,  he  found 
a  prevailing  vagueness,  tepidity,  indifference,  almost 
fatigue.  .  .  .  He  was  forced  to  conclude  that  the 
flamboyancy  of  their  appearance  was  mild  to  them- 
selves, that  they  had  no  wish  to  appear  startling,  and 
did  so  only  as  the  result  of  a  universal  lack  of  taste. 


THE  LADY  EVA  135 

He  moved  among  them,  steadfastly  following  the 
Speaker,  but  feeling  tired  and  stiff  and  inert.  His 
limbs  ached  with  unaccustomed  labor,  his  left  hand 
was  torn  and  bandaged,  and  he  had  still  in  his  nostrils 
the  thick,  greasy  smell  of  the  workshops  in  which  he 
had  spent  the  morning.  Here,  after  his  first  shock 
of  surprise  at  the  sight  of  the  guns,  he  had  soon  under- 
stood that  he  was  expected  to  do  much  more  than 
admire  and  approve.  These,  the  Speaker  said,  were 
by  no  means  his  first  experiments  in  the  art  of  gun- 
casting.  And,  after  that,  the  old  man  had  recounted  to 
Jeremy,  assisted  by  occasional  uncouth  ejaculations 
from  the  aged  foreman  of  that  amazing  gang  of  cen- 
tenarians, a  story  that  had  been  nothing  less  than 
stupefying. 

The  last  men  in  whose  fading  minds  some  glimmer 
of  the  art  still  remained  had  been  gathered  together, 
at  the  cost  of  infinite  trouble,  from  the  districts  where 
machinery  was  still  most  in  use,  chiefly  from  Scotland, 
Yorkshire,  and  Wales.  They  had  been  brought  thither 
on  the  pretense  that  their  experience  was  needed  in 
the  central  repairing-shops  of  the  railways;  and  appar- 
ently it  had  been  necessary  in  all  possible  ways  to  de- 
ceive and  to  reassure  the  principal  men  of  their  native 
districts.  Once  they  had  been  obtained,  they  had 
slaved  for  years  with  senile  docility  to  satisfy  the  de- 
mands which  the  Speaker's  senile  and  half-lunatic  en- 
thusiasm made  on  their  disappearing  knowledge. 
Somehow  he  had  created  in  them  a  queer  pride,  a 
queer  spirit  of  endeavor.  That  grotesque  chorus  of 
ancients  had  become  inspired  with  a  single  anxiety, 
to  create  before  they  perished  a  gun  which  could  be 
fired  without  instantly  destroying  those  who  fired  it. 

They  had  had  trouble  with  the  breech-mechanism. 


136      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

the  Speaker  nonchalantly  remarked ;  and  Jeremy  had  a 
vision  of  men  blown  to  pieces  in  the  remote  and  lonely 
valley  where  the  first  guns  were  tried.  The  immediate 
purpose  for  which  Jeremy's  help  was  required  was  the 
adjustment  of  the  process  of  cutting  the  interrupted 
screw-thread  by  which  the  breech-block  was  locked 
into  the  gun.  He  had  toiled  at  it  all  the  morning, 
surrounded  by  jumping  and  antic  old  men,  whose 
speech  he  could  hardly  understand  and  to  whom  he 
could  only  with  the  greatest  exertion  communicate 
his  own  opinions.  He  had  wrestled  with,  and  tugged 
at,  antiquated  and  dilapidated  machinery,  had  cursed 
and  sworn,  had  given  himself  a  great  cut  on  the  palm 
of  his  left  hand  and  had  descended  almost  to  the  level 
of  his  ridiculous  fellow-workers.  And  yet,  when  he 
had  finished,  the  difficult  screw-thread  was  in  a  fair 
way  to  be  properly  cut. 

He  came  hot  from  these  nightmare  experiences-  to 
the  Speaker's  reception;  and  when  he  looked  round 
and  contrasted  the  one  scene  with  the  other,  he  had 
a  sense  of  phantasmagoria  that  made  him  feel  dizzy. 
It  was  almost  too  much  for  his  reason  ...  on  top 
of  a  transition  that  would  have  overbalanced  most  nor- 
mal men.  .  .  .  He  was  recalled  from  his  bewilder- 
ing reflections  by  the  Speaker's  voice,  low  and  grum-. 
bling  in  his  ear. 

They  had  drifted  for  a  moment  away  from  the  thick- 
est of  the  crowd  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  the 
old  man  was  able  to  speak  without  fear  of  being  over- 
heard. "It  is  as  I  have  noticed  for  years,"  he  said, 
"but  it  gets  worse  and  worse.  These  are  only  from  the 
south." 

Jeremy  started  and  replied  a  little  at  random : 
"Only  from  the  south   .    .    .    ?" 


THE  LADY  EVA  137 

"Listen  carefully  to  all  I  say  to  you.  It  is- all  useful. 
These  people  here  are  only  from  the  south,  from 
Essex,  like  that  young  Roger  Vaile,  and  Kent  and 
Surrey  and  Sussex  and  Hampshire.  The  big  men 
from  the  north  and  west  come  every  year  less  often 
to  the  Treasury.  And  yet  these  fools  hardly  notice 
it,  and  would  see  nothing  remarkable  in  it  if  they  did." 

"You  mean  .  .  ."  Jeremy  began.  But  before  he 
could  gQt  farther  he  saw  the  Speaker  turn  aside  with 
a  smile  of  obvious  falsity  and  exaggerated  sweetness. 
The  sinister  little  person,  whom  Jeremy  knew  from  a 
distance  as  "the  Canadian,"  was  approaching  them 
with  a  characteristically  arrogant  step  and  bearing. 

The  Speaker  made  them  known  to  one  another  in  a 
manner  that  barely  concealed  a  certain  uneasiness  and 
unrest.  "Thomas  Wells,"  he  explained  in  a  loud  and 
formal  voice,  "is  the  son  of  one  of  the  chief  of  the 
Canadian  Bosses,  whom  we  reckon  among  our  subjects 
and  who  by  courtesy  allow  themselves  to  be  described 
as  such.  But  I  reckon  it  as  an  honor  to  have  Thomas 
Wells,  the  son  of  George  Wells,  for  my  guest  in  the 
Treasury." 

"That's  so,"  said  the  Canadian  gravely,  without 
making  it  quite  clear  which  part  of  the  Speaker's  re- 
mark he  thus  corroborated.  Then  he  stared  keenly 
at  Jeremy,  apparently  controlling  a  strong  instinct  of 
discomfort  and  dislike  by  an  effort  of  will.  Jeremy  re- 
turned the  stare  inimically, 

"I  believe  we  have  met  before,"  he  suggested,  not 
without  a  little  malice. 

"That's  so,"  the  Canadian  agreed ;  and  as  he  spoke 
he  sketched  the  sign  of  the  cross  in  an  unobtrusive 
manner  that  made  it  appear  as  though  it  might  have 
been  a  chance  movement  of  his  hand.     The  Speaker 


138      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

hung  over  them  with  evident  anxiety,  and  at  last  said : 

"You  two  are  both  strangers  to  this  country.  You 
ought  to  be  able  to  compare  your  impressions." 

"I  would  much  rather  hear  something  about  Can- 
ada," Jeremy  answered. 

Thomas  Wells  shrugged  his  shoulders.  *'It  isn't  like 
this  country,"  he  said  carelessly.  "We  can't  be  as 
easy-going  as  the  people  are  here.  We  have  to  fight — 
but  we  do  fight  and  win,"  he  concluded,  momentarily 
baring  his  teeth  in  a  savage  grin. 

"The  Canadians,  as  every  one  knows,  are  the  best 
soldiers  in  the  world,"  the  Speaker  interpolated. 
"They  are  always  fighting." 

"And  whom  do  you  fight?"  Jeremy  asked. 

"Oh,  anybody.  .  .  .  You  see,  the  people  to  the 
south  of  us  are  always  quarreling  among  themselves, 
and  we  chip  in.  And  then  sometimes  we  send  armies 
down  to  Mexico  or  the  Isthmus." 

"But  the  people  to  the  south  .  .  ."  Jeremy  began. 
"Haven't  you  still  got  the  United  States  to  the  south 
of  you?  And  I  should  have  thought  they'd  be  too 
many  for  you?" 

"There  are  no  United  States  now — I've  heard  of 
them.  "  Thomas  Wells's  dislike  of  Jeremy  seemed 
to  have  been  overcome  by  a  swelling  impulse  of  boast- 
fulness.  "From  what  I  can  make  out,  they  never 
did  get  their  people  in  hand  as  we  did.  They've  always 
been  disturbed.  Their  leaders  don't  last  long,  and 
they  fight  one  another.  And  we're  always  growing  in 
numbers  and  getting  harder,  while  they  get  fewer  and 
softer.     Why,  they're  easy  fruit!" 

Jeremy  could  find  nothing  for  this  but  polite  and 
impressed  assent.  Thomas  Wells  allowed  his  lean 
!face  to  be  split  by  a  starthng  grin  and  went  on:  "I 


THE  LADY  EVA  139 

suppose  you've  never  heard  of  me?  No!  Well,  I'm 
not  like  these  people  here.  I  was  brought  up  to  fight. 
My  dad  fought  his  way  to  the  top.  His  dad  was  a 
small  man,  out  Edmonton  way,  with  not  more  than 
two  or  three  thousand  bayonets.  But  he  kept  at  it, 
and  now  none  of  the  Bosses  in  Canada  are  bigger 
than  we  are.  It  was  me  that  led  the  raid  on  Boston 
when  I  was  only  twenty." 

Jeremy  turned  aside  from  the  last  announcement 
with  a  feeling  of  disgust.  He  thought  that  Thomas 
Wells  looked  like  some  small  bloodthirsty  animal,  a 
ferret  or  a  stoat,  with  pale  burning  eyes  and  thin 
stretched  mouth  that  sought  the  throat  of  a  living 
creature.  He  was  saved  from  the  necessity  for  an 
answer  by  the  Canadian  turning  sharply  on  his  heel, 
as  though  something  had  touched  a  spring  in  his  body. 
Jeremy  followed  the  movement  with  his  eyes  and  saw 
the  Lady  Eva  making  her  way  towards  them  through 
the  crowd. 

Thomas  Wells  went  to  meet  her  with  an  air  of  ex- 
aggerated gallantry,  and  murmured  something  with 
his  bow.  She  seemed  to  be  to-day  in  a  mood  of  modest 
behavior,  for  she  received  his  salutation  with  down- 
cast eyes  and  no  more  than  a  movement  of  the  lips. 
As  he  watched  them  Jeremy  again  became  aware  of 
the  Speaker  standing  beside  him,  whom  he  had  for  a 
moment  forgotten.  He  stole  a  look  at  the  old  man 
and  saw  that  his  brow  was  troubled  and  that,  though 
his  hands  were  clasped  behind  his  back  in  an  appar- 
ently careless  attitude,  the  fingers  were  clenched  and 
the  knuckles  white.  As  he  registered  these  impres- 
sions, the  Lady  Eva,  still  with  downward  glance,  sailed 
past  Thomas  Wells  and  approached  him.     When  he 


140      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

saw  her  intention,  a  faint  disturbance  sprang  up  in 
his  heart  and  interfered  with  his  breathing. 

She  had  already  halted  beside  him  when  he  realized 
that  now,  in  the  presence  of  this  company,  her  deport- 
ment being  what  it  was,  he  must  make  the  first  speech. 
He  stuttered  awkwardly  and  said :  "I  have  been 
hoping  to  see  you  again." 

She  raised  her  eyes  a  trifle,  and  he  fancied  that  he 
saw  the  shadow  of  a  smile  in  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 
Her  reply  was  pitched  in  so  low  a  tone  as  to  be  at 
first  incomprehensible,  and  there  followed  a  moment 
of  emptiness  before  he  realized  that  she  had  said, 
"You  have  been  with  Roger  Vaile." 

He  interpreted  it  as  in  some  sort  of  a  reproach,  and 
was  about  to  protest  when  he  saw  the  Speaker  frown- 
ing at  him.  He  did  not  understand  the  frown,  but 
he  moderated  his  vehemence.  "I  have  been  learning," 
he  said  in  level  tones.  "I  have  been  learning  a  great 
deal."  And  then  he  added  more  quietly,  "Not  but 
what  you  could  teach  me  much  more." 

At  this  she  raised  her  head  and  laughed  frankly; 
and  he,  looking  up  too,  saw  that  the  Speaker  had 
drawn  Thomas  Wells  away  and  that  the  backs  of 
both  were  disappearing  in  the  throng.  A  strange,  un- 
comfortable sense  of  an  intrigue,  which  he  could  not 
understand,  oppressed  him.  He  glared  suspiciously 
at  the  girl,  but  read  nothing  more  than  mischief  and 
merriment  in  her  face. 

"I  was  well  scolded  the  last  time  I  spoke  to  you," 
she  said,  "but  I  have  behaved  well  this  time, 
haven't  I?" 

Exhilaration  chased  all  his  doubts  away.  He  gazed 
at  her  openly,  took  in  the  wide  eyes,  the  straight  nose, 
the  aoisitive  mouth,  the  healthy  skin.     Then  he  tried 


THE  LADY  EVA  141 

to  pull  himself  together,  to  recover  a  dry,  sane  con- 
sciousness of  his  situation.  It  was  absurd,  he  told 
himself — at  his  age! — to  be  unsettled  by  a  conversa- 
tion with  a  beautiful  girl  who  might  have  been,  if 
he  had  had  any,  one  of  his  remote  descendants.  He 
felt  unaccountably  like  a  man  glissading  on  the 
smooth,  steep  slope  of  a  hill.  Of  course,  he  would  in 
a  moment  be  able  to  catch  hold  of  a  tuft  of  grass,  to 
steady  himself  by  digging  his  heels  intO'  the  ground. 
.  .  .  But  meanwhile  the  Lady  Eva  was  looking  at 
him. 

"What  do  you  think  I  could  teach  you?"  she  asked. 

"I  know  so  little,"  he  answered  haphazard.  "I  know 
nothing  about  any  of  the  people  here.  I  suppose  you 
know  them  all?" 

"They  are  the  big  men  and  their  wives.  What  can 
I  tell  you  about  them?" 

"What  do  you  think  of  them  yourself?" 

She  eyed  him  a  little  askance,  doubtful  but  almost 
laughing.  "What  would  you  think  .  .  ,  what  would 
they  think — if  I  were  to  tell  you  that?" 

"But  they  will  never  know,"  he  urged,  in  a  tone 
of  ridiculously  serious  entreaty. 

"Don't  you  know  that  I  am  already  considered  a 
little  .  .  .  strange?  I  don't  think  I  could  tell  you 
anything  about  our  society  that  would  be  any  use  to 
you.  My  mother  tells  me  every  day  that  I  don't  know 
how  to  behave  myself ;  and  I  daresay  all  these  people 
would  say  the  same." 

"But  why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  .  .  ."  She  half  swung  round, 
tapped  the  floor  with  her  heel  and  returned  to  him, 
grown  almost  grave.  "I  hate  the  .  .  .  the  ,  .  . 
the  easiness  of  everybody.    They  all  stroll  through  life, 


142      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

and  the  women  do  nothing  and  behave  modestly — t 
they're  not  ahve.  I  suppose  I  am  like  my  father.  He 
is  odd  too." 

"But  I  am  like  him,"  Jeremy  said  earnestly,  "If 
you  are  like  him,  then  I  must  be  like  you.  But  I  don't 
know  enough  to  be  sure  how  different  every  one  else 
is.     They  seem  very  amiable,  very  gentle,   .  .  ." 

"I  hate  their  gentleness,"  she  began  in  a  louder  tone. 
But  instead  of  going  on,  she  dropped  her  eyes  to  the 
ground  and  stood  silent,  Jeremy,  perplexed  for  a 
minute,  suddenly  became  aware  of  the  Lady  Burney 
beside  them,  an  expression  of  dull  disapproval  on  her 
brilliantly  carmined  face.  He  had  the  presence  of 
mind  to  bow  to  her  very  respectfully. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you  again,  Jeremy  Tuft,"  she 
said  with  a  heavy  and  undeceiving  graciousness.  As 
she  spoke  she  edged  herself  between  him  and  the  Lady 
Eva;  and  Jeremy  could  quite  plainly  see  her  motion- 
ing her  daughter  away  with  a  gesture  that  she  only 
affected  to  conceal.  He  strove  to  keep  an  expression 
of  annoyance  from  his  face  and  answered  as  enthusi- 
astically as  he  could.  She  spoke  a  few  more  listless 
sentences  with  an  air  of  fighting  a  rearguard  action. 
When  she  left  him  he  sought  through  the  room  for 
the  Lady  Eva,  disregarding  all  who  tried  to  accost 
him;  but  he  could  not  come  at  her  again. 


Roger  Vaile  was  divided  between  disappointment 
and  pride  at  Jeremy's  favor  with  the  Speaker,  and 
expressed-  both  feelings  with  the  same  equability  of 
demeanor. 


THE  LADY  EVA  143 

"I  hope  I  shall  see  you  again  sometimes,"  he  said; 
"but  the  Speaker  has  always  disliked  me." 

Jeremy  experienced  an  acute  discomfort  and  sought 
to  relieve  himself  by  replying  with  warmth,  "But  you 
saved  my  life.     I  told  him  that  you  did." 

Roger  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  "Of  course  he 
took  no  more  notice  of  that  than  I  do.  After  all,  it 
is  rather  absurd,  isn't  it  ?  I  merely  happened  to  be  the 
first  man  that  saw  you.  But  I  liked  looking  after 
you,  and  I  should  be  sorry  if  I  never  saw  you  again. 
And  so  would  my  uncle." 

At  the  mention  of  the  priest  contrition  assailed 
Jeremy.  He  had  a  vision  of  the  old  man  desiring 
information  about  the  twentieth  century  and  not  receiv- 
ing it.  Roger  saw  what  was  passing  through  his  mind 
and  again  shook  his  head  slightly. 

"The  Speaker  thinks  my  uncle  an  old  fool,"  he  went 
on  reflectively,  "and  from  some  points  of  view  he's 
right.  And  he  thinks  me  a  young  fool,  which  I 
shouldn't  presume  to  dispute.  For  that  matter  he 
things  most  people  are  fools.  And  the  Lady  Burney 
thinks  I  am  a  good-for-nothing  young  scoundrel — but 
she  has  her  own  reasons  for  that." 

"And  what  does  the  Lady  Eva  think  of  you?" 
Jeremy  asked  curiously. 

"Oh,  the  Lady  Eva's  a  wonder!"  Roger  said  with 
more  fervor  than  he  usually  displayed.  "She's  not 
like  any  one  else  alive.  Why,  do  you  know  the  other 
day,  when  she  was  out  riding  with  her  groom  she 
beckoned  to  me  and  made  me  ride  with  her  for  ten 
minutes  while  I  told  her  all  about  you," 

Jeremy  supposed  that  this  must  be  unusually  dar- 
ing conduct  for  a  young  girl  of  the  twenty-first  cen- 
tury, and  he  acknowledged  the  impression  it  made 


144      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

on   him   by   nodding   his   head   two   or   three   times. 

"That's  the  chief  reason  why  the  Lady  Burney  hates 
me,"  Roger  continued,  a  slight  warmth  still  charging 
his  voice.  "But  she  doesn't  understand  her  own 
daughter.  The  Lady  Eva  takes  no  particular  interest 
in  me.  She  merely  can't  bear  being  cooped  up,  like 
other  girls,  and  not  being  able  to  talk  to  any  one  she 
wants  to.  And  because  I've  gone  to  her  once  or. 
twice  when  she  has  called  to  me,  they  think  there's 
something  between  us.  But  there  isn't :  I  wish  there 
were." 

Jeremy  regarded  with  admiration  this  moderate  and 
gentle  display  of  passion.  "But  whom  wull  she 
marry  ?"  he  ventured,  feeling  himself  a  little  disturbed 
by  his  own  question  as  soon  as  it  was  uttered. 

"I  believe  the  Lady  Burney  would  like  her  to  marry 
that  horrible  Canadian.  And  her  father  would  marry 
her  to  any  one  if  he  saw  his  profit  in  it.  It's  lucky  for 
her  that  the  Chairman  of  Bradford  is  married  al- 
ready." 

"What  makes  you  say  that?" 

"He's  the  biggest  man  of  the  North  and  one  of  the 
men,  so  they  say,  that  the  Speaker  is  most  afraid  of. 
There's  some  kind  of  dispute  going  on  between  them 
now.  But  it's  all  nonsense,"  Roger  concluded  indif- 
ferently. "There's  really  nothing  for  them  to  quarrel 
about  and  nothing  will  come  of  it.  But  the  Speaker 
always  does  excite  himself  about  nothing  and  always 
has.  He's  a  very  strange  old  man ;  and  the  Lady  Eva 
is  like  him  in  some  ways.  And  then  there's  that  Cana- 
dian. .  .  .  You  will  find  yourself  among  a  queer 
lot :     I  own  that  I  don't  understand  them." 

But  in  spite  of  Roger's  wishes  and  Jeremy's  pro- 
testations their  meetings  were,   for  some  time  after 


THE  LADY  EVA  145 

this  conversation,  casual  and  infrequent.  The 
Speaker,  as  he  grimly  said,  had  a  use  for  Jeremy,  and 
was  determined  to  see  it  accomplished.  Day  after  day 
they  went  together  to  the  guarded  and  mysterious 
workshop  behind  Waterloo  Station,  There,  day  after 
day,  Jeremy  painfully  revived  his  rusty  knowledge  of 
mechanics,  and,  himself  driven  by  the  Speaker,  drove 
the  gang  of  old  men  to  feats  of  astonishing  skill. 

He  was  astonished  at  the  outset  to  see  what  they 
had  actually  done.  To  have  made  two  rifled,  wire- 
wound  guns,  with  their  failing  wits  and  muscles  and 
with  the  crazy  museum  of  machinery  which  they 
showed  him,  had  been  truly  an  amazing  performance. 
He  learnt  later  that  this  was  the  eleventh  pair  that 
had  been  cast  in  fifteen  years,  and  the  first  since  they 
had  mastered  the  art  of  properly  shrinking  on  the  case. 
They  were  still  in  difficulties  with  the  screw-thread  in- 
side the  gun  that  locked  the  breech-block;  and  as  he 
set  them  time  and  time  again  at  the  task  of  remedying 
this  or  that  fault  in  their  workmanship,  he  understood 
why  they  had  taken  so  long  and  why  so  many  guns 
had  blown  up.  What  he  could  not  understand  was  the 
Speaker's  indomitable  persistence  in  this  fantastic  un- 
dertaking, which,  but  for  his  own  arrival  in  the  world, 
might  have  "taken  fifteen  years  more  and  outlasted  all 
the  old  men  concerned  in  it. 

But  while  he  slaved,  sweating  and  harassed,  some- 
times despairing  because  of  a  scrap  of  knowledge  that 
evaded  his  memory  or  because  of  the  absence  of  some 
machine  that  would  have  ensured  accurate  working, 
the  Speaker  hovered  round  him  and,  little  by  little, 
in  long  harangues  and  confessions,  laid  bare  the  main- 
springs of  his  nature.  These  extraordinary  scenes 
lasted  in  Jeremy's  mind,  moved  before  his  eyes,  echoed 


146      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

in  his  ears,  when  he  had  left  the  shed,  when  he  sat  at 
dinner  or  in  the  darkness  when  he  was  trying  to  sleep, 
until  he  found  that  he  was  gradually  being  infected 
with  a  dogged,  unreasoning  enthusiasm  like  that  of 
his  dotard  fellow-workers.  He  even  felt  a  little 
ashamed  of  himself  for  succumbing  to  the  fanatical 
influence  of  an  insane  old  Jew. 

But  the  Speaker  would  stand  at  his  elbow,  when  he 
was  adjusting  a  decrepit  lathe  that  ought  to  have  been 
long  ago  on  the  scrap-heap,  and  rhapsodize  endlessly 
in  his  thick  muttering  voice  that  rose  sometimes  to  a 
shout,  accompanied  by  lifted  hands  and  flashing  eyes. 

"I  was  born  too  late,"  he  would  cry,  "and  I  should 
perhaps  have  given  up  hope  if  I  had  not  found  you. 
But  you  and  I,  when  this  task  is  done,  will  regenerate 
the  kingdom.  How  long  I  have  labored  and  these 
easy-going  fools  have  not  once  helped  me  or  under- 
stood me!  But  now  our  triumph  begins — when  the 
guns  are  made." 

Jeremy,  standing  up  to  ease  his  back  and  wiping  his 
hands  on  an  oily  rag,  would  reflect  that  if  it  took  so 
long  to  cut  a  screw-thread  correctly,  the  regeneration 
of  the  whole  kingdom  was  likely  to  be  a  pretty  con- 
siderable task.  Besides,  when  he  was  away  from  the 
Speaker  or  when  his  absorption  in  the  machinery  re- 
moved him  from  that  formidable  influence,  his  thoughts 
took  a  wider  cast.  He  was  sometimes  far  from  sure 
that  a  regeneration  which  began  by  the  manufacture 
of  heavy  artillery  was  likely  to  be  a  process  of  which 
he  could  wholly  approve.  He  found  this  age  suffici- 
ently agreeable  not  to  wish  to  change  it. 

It  was  true  that  innumerable  conveniences  had  gone. 
But  on  the  other  hand  most  of  the  people  seemed  to  be 
reasonably  contented,  and  no  one  was  ever  in  a  htirry. 


THE  LADY  EVA  147 

The  Speaker,  Jeremy  often  thought,  was  principally 
bent  on  regenerating  those  vices  of  which  the  world 
had  managed  to  cure  itself.  The  trains  were  few  and 
uncertain,  and,  from  the  universal  decay  of  mechanical 
knowledge,  were  bound  in  time  to  cease  altogether; 
but  England,  so  far  as  Jeremy  could  see,  would  get  on 
very  well  without  any  trains  at  all.  There  was  no 
telephone;  but  that  was  in  many  ways  a  blessing. 
There  was  no  electric  light,  except  here  and  there, 
notably,  so  he  learnt,  in  some  of  the  Cotswold  towns, 
which  were  again  flourishing  under  the  rule  of  the 
wool-merchants  and  where  it  was  provided  by  water- 
power  to  illuminate  their  great  new  houses.  But  it 
was  certainly  possible  to  regard  candles  and  lamps 
as  more  beautiful.  The  streets  were  dark  at  night 
and  not  oversafe;  but  no  man  went  out  unarmed  or 
alone  after  sunset,  and  actual  violence  was  rare. 
Jeremy  was  anxious  to  see  what  the  country- 
side looked  like,  when  the  Speaker  would  allow 
him  a  tour  out  of  London.  He  gathered  that  it 
was  richer  and  more  prosperous  than  he  had  known 
it,  and  that  the  small  country  town  had  come 
again  into* its  own.  He  learnt  with  joy  that  the  wounds 
made  by  the  bricks  and  mortar  of  the  great  manufac- 
turing cities  had,  save  in  isolated  places,  in  parts  of 
Yorkshire  and  Wales,  long  been  healed  by  the  green 
touch  of  time.  He  formed  for  himself  a  pleasant  pic- 
ture of  the  new  England,  and,  when  his  mind  was  his 
own,  he  shrank  from  disturbing  it. 
'  But  when  the  Speaker,  with  mad  eyes  and  clawing 
gestures,  muttered  beside  him,  he  turned  again  with 
an  almost  equal  fanaticism  to  the  hopeless  business 
of  restoring  all  that  was  gone  and  that  was  better 
gone.    And,  under  this  slave-driver's  eye,  he  had  little 


148      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

time  for  anything  else.  Even  at  night  they  generally 
dined  alone  together  in  the  Speaker's  own  room;  and 
Jeremy,  drugged  and  stupefied  with  fatigue,  sat  silent 
while  the  old  man  continued  his  unflagging  monologue. 
And  every  day  his  enthusiasm  grew  greater,  his  de- 
mands for  haste  more  frequent  and  more  urgent. 
Only  never,  in  all  the  ramblings  of  his  speech,  did  he 
once  betray  the  use  he  intended  to  make  of  the  guns, 
the  reason  for  his  urgency. 

Jeremy  looked  out  from  this  existence  and  saw  a 
resting  world  in  which  he  alone  must  labor.  The 
strain  began  to  tell  on  his  nerves;  and  he  sometimes 
complained  weakly  to  himself  that  the  nightmare,  into 
which  he  had  awakened,  endured  and  seemed  to  have 
established  itself  as  a  permanency.  He  had  none  save 
fleeting  opportunities  of  seeing  the  Lady  Eva.  On  the 
few  occasions  when  they  met  it  had  been  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Lady  Bumey;  and  the  girl  had  conducted 
herself  with  silent,  almost  too  perfect,  propriety. 
Jeremy,  much  too  tired  and  harassed  to  think  out  any- 
thing clearly,  concluded  that  circumstances  had,  once 
again  in  his  life,  taken  the  vvrong  turn  and  that  his 
luck  was   out. 

One  morning,  about  three  weeks  after  his  first  visit 
to  the  workshop,  he  succeeded  for  the  first  time  in 
fitting  the  already  completed  breech-block  into  the  gun 
and  satisfied  himself  that  the  delicate  mechanism, 
though  it  left  much  to  be  desired  and  would  not  last 
very  long,  would  do  well  enough.  He  looked  up  wear- 
ily from  this  triumph  and  saw  the  old  gnomes,  his 
colleagues,  grotesquely  working  all  around  him. 
Gradually,  as  he  became  convinced  of  the  Speaker's 
insanity,  these  uncouth  creatures  had  grown  more  hu- 
man and  individual  in  his  eyes  and  less  like  a  chorus 


THE  LADY  EVA  149 

in  one  of  Maeterlinck's  plays.  He  had  not  been  busy- 
all  the  time  with  that  infernal  screw-thread.  He  had 
looked  now  and  then  into  a  smaller  shed  close  by, 
where  in  the  most  primitive  manner  and  with  an  ap- 
palling disregard  of  safety,  an  aged  workman  occupied 
himself  with  the  production  of  explosives.  This  man 
was  a  little  more  intelligent  than  the  rest,  and  had 
studied  with  devotion  a  marvelous  collection  of  old 
and  rapidly  disintegrating  handbooks  on  his  subject. 
He  was  a  small  and  skinny  creature,  with  an  alert 
manner  and  a  curious  skipping  walk ;  and  Jeremy  had 
got  used  to  seeing  the  hatchet  face  bobbing  towards 
him  with  demands  for  help. 

Now,  as  he  rested  for  a  moment,  there  was  a  noise 
that  penetrated  even  his  dulled  consciousness;  and,  as 
he  started  up  in  alarm,  Hatchet-face  skipped  in,  burst- 
ing with  inarticulate  excitement.  It  appeared,  when  he 
was  able  to  speak,  that  he  had  just  missed  blowing  off 
his  left  hand  with  the  first  detonator  to  function  in  an 
entirely  satisfactory  way;  and,  while  one  of  his  fellows 
bandaged  his  hurts,  he  continued  to  rejoice,  showing  a 
praiseworthy  absence  of  self-concern.  The  hubbub 
attracted  the  Speaker,  who  was  not  far  away;  and 
when  he  arrived  he  learnt  with  delight  of  its  cause. 
Jeremy  capped  this  news  with  his  of  the  breech-lock; 
and  for  a  moment  the  old  man's  terrifying  countenance 
was  lit  up  with  a  wholly  human  and  simple  happiness. 
Then  he  announced  that  they  would  not  attend  at  the 
workshop  that  afternoon.  Jeremy,  from  the  bench  on 
which  he  had  laxly  subsided,  remarked  that  they  de- 
served a  holiday. 

"It  is  not  that,"  said  the  Speaker,  frowning  again. 
"It  is  a  reception  to  which  I  must  go,  an  affair  of 


150      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

ceremony,  and  I  wish  you  to  come  with  me.     There 
will  be  some  kind  of  a  show." 

Jeremy  was  not  sure  what  significance  this  variable 
word  might  by  now  have  acquired,  and  he  did  not 
much  care.  He  looked  forward  to  an  afternoon's  re- 
laxation. He  was  thankful  for  so  much ;  but  he  won- 
dered at  the  back  of  his  mind  what  the  Speaker  would 
want  to  start  on  now  that  the  guns  were  nearly  fin- 
ished. 


The  reception  was  to  be  held  at  the  house  of  one 
Henry  Watkins,  a  big  man  with  large  estates  near 
London  and  in  Kent,  whom  Jeremy  had  met  and  had  a 
little  remarked.  He  seemed  to  be  the  most  influential 
and  the  most  consulted  frequenter  of  the  Treasury; 
and  Jeremy  observed  that  the  Speaker  commonly  men- 
tioned him  with  rather  less  than  his  usual  contempt. 
His  house  was  a  large  one,  almost  exactly  on  the  site 
of  Charing  Cross,  with  gardens  stretching  down  to 
the  river;  and  here,  when  their  carriage  arrived,  he 
came  out  and  with  easy  respectfulness  helped  the 
Speaker  to  alight. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  long,  narrow  face  and  a 
slightly  fretful  expression.  As  he  took  the  old  man's 
arm  Jeremy  fancied  that  he  whispered  something,  and 
that  the  Speaker  shook  his  head.  Then  he  turned  to 
Jeremy  and  said  perfunctorily,  "I  have  had  the  happi- 
ness of  making  your  acquaintance,"  wheeled  back  to 
the  Speaker  and  went  on :  ''We  waited  only  for  you, 
sir.  The  Lady  Burney  and  the  Lady  Eva  and  Thomas 
Wells  are  already  here." 

"Then  lead  us  to  them,"  the  Speaker  replied.  And 
as  they  were  being  conducted  through   a  crowd   of 


THE  LADY  EVA  151 

waiting  guests,  who  made  way  for  them  with  a  quiet 
buzz  of  deferential  salutations,  he  observed  in  a  gra- 
cious tone,  "I  need  not  ask  whether  you  have  a  good 
show  for  us,  Henry  Watkins." 

"I  trust  that  it  will  please  you,  sir,"  the  host  replied. 
*'I  have  heard  this  troop  very  well  spoken  of." 

Jeremy  was  prepared  by  this  conversation  for  some- 
thing in  the  way  of  a  performance ;  and  he  was  there- 
fore not  surprised  when  they  were  ushered  into  a  large 
room,  which  had  been  rudely  fitted  up  as  a  theater.  At 
the  front,  standing  by  themselves,  were  four  gilt  arm- 
chairs, and  on  these  Jeremy  thought  he  recognized  the 
backs  of  the  Speaker's  wife,  of  his  daughter,  and  of 
Thomas  Wells.  They  caught  the  Speaker's  notice, 
too,  and  he  halted  suddenly,  craning  his  head  forward 
and  peering  at  them. 

"There  are  only  four  chairs,"  he  said  in  a  rasping 
voice.  "I  wish  another  chair  to  be  brought  for  my 
friend,  Jeremy  Tuft."  In  a  moment,  after  some  con- 
fusion, Jeremy  found  himself  sitting  next  to  the  Lady 
Eva  and  hearing  her  demure  reply  to  his  greeting, 
which  was  almost  drowned  by  the  noise  of  the  guests 
behind  them  entering  the  hall.  When  this  had  died 
down,  he  essayed  a  second  remark,  but  received  no 
answer  beyond  an  inclination  of  the  beautiful  head, 
which  he  was  devoutly  studying  with  a  strained  side- 
long glance.  He  therefore  examined  the  stage  instead 
and  saw  that  it  was  already  set  with  roughly-painted 
canvas  flats.  These  appeared  to  be  intended  to  repre- 
sent a  wood.  There  was  no  curtain;  and  the  end  of 
what  looked  remarkably  like  a  piano  was  projecting 
from  one  of  the  wings.  Tall  canvas  screens  ran  from 
the  two  ends  of  the  stage  to  the  walls  of  the  room,  cov- 
ering on  each  side  a  space  about  five  feet  long;  and 


152      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

Jeremy  surmised,  from  a  persistent  whispering  and 
from  an  occasional  bulging  of  the  canvas,  that  the 
players  vvere  hidden  in  these  narrow  quarters. 

Presently  three  loud  raps  were  heard  and  a  hush 
fell  on  the  audience.  Jeremy  started  in  his  seat  when 
an  invisible  performer  at  the  piano  began  to  play  what 
sounded  like  a  mangled  waltz,  very  loud,  very  crude 
and  very  vulgar.  The  strings  of  the  piano  were  in 
indifferent  condition,  the  skill  of  the  executant  was 
no  better,  and  Jeremy,  who  was  proud  of  having  some 
sympathy  for  music,  suffered  a  little.  When  he  looked 
about  him,  however,  he  saw  neither  amusement  nor 
annoyance  on  any  face.  Luckily  the  performance 
lasted  only  a  few  minutes.  As  soon  as  it  was  done, 
an  actress  tripped  affectedly  on  to  the  stage  from  the 
right  side  and  began  to  declaim  in  a  voice  so  high 
pitched  and  theatrical  and  with  so  many  gestures  and 
movements  of  her  head  that  Jeremy  could  hardly  un- 
derstand a  word  of  what  she  was  saying.  He  gathered 
that  she  had  come  to  this  wood  to  meet  her  lover;  and 
his  guess  was  confirmed  when  an  actor  strode  on  from 
the  left,  stamping  his  feet  on  the  resounding  boards 
as  he  came.  Then  both  began  to  declaim  at  one  an- 
other in  voices  of  enormous  power.  Their  stilted  vio- 
lence alarmed  and  repelled  Jeremy.  He  ceased  to  look 
at  the  stage,  wondering  whether,  under  cover  of  the 
excitement  which  this  scene  must  be  causing,  he  dared 
steal  a  glance  at  the  Lady  Eva.  He  did  so,  and  dis- 
covered that  she  was  looking  at  him. 

Both  averted  their  eyes,  and  Jeremy  sat  staring  at 
the  floor,  his  heart  beating  and,  he  felt  certain,  his 
cheeks  burning.  Above  his  head  the  drama  ranted 
along  with  a  loud  monotonous  noise  like  the  sea  beating 
on  rocks,  and  made  a  background  to  his  thoughts. 


THE  LADY  EVA  153 

That  single  glance  had  precipitated  his  emotions,  and 
he  must  now  confess  to  himself,  what  had  been  before 
a  mere  toy  for  the  brain,  that  he  loved  this  girl.  The 
admission  carried  his  mind  whirling  wildly  away,  and 
he  would  have  been  content  to  brood  on  it  with  a 
secret  rising  delight  until  he  was  interrupted.  But  he 
could  not  help  asking  himself  whether  he  had  not  dis- 
covered something  else,  whether  there  had  not  been  at 
least  a  particular  interest  in  the  e3^es  of  the  Lady  Eva. 
This  second  thought  at  first  terrified  him  by  its  revela- 
tion of  his  own  audacity  in  conceiving  it.  For  a  mo- 
ment it  stopped  him  still,  and  then  suddenly  there 
was  silence  on  the  stage. 

The  actor  and  the  actress  were  departing,  she  to 
the  right,  he  to  the  left,  bowing  as  they  went.  The 
whole  audience  began  clapping  in  a  decorous  and  gentle 
manner.  The  Lady  Eva  leant  slightly  towards  Jeremy 
as  he  sat  stupefied  and  motionless,  and  whispered : 

"You  must  clap.  You  will  be  thought  impolite  if 
you  do  not." 

He  obeyed  in  a  dazed  way,  watching  her  and  seeing 
how  she  brought  the  palms  of  her  hands  together,  regu- 
larly but  so  softly  that  it  made  hardly  any  sound. 
While  the  applause  still  continued,  servants  came  for- 
ward from  the  sides  of  the  hall,  sprang  up  on  the  stage 
and  began  removing  the  scenery,  which  they  replaced 
with  other  flats,  representing  a  street.  And  after  an 
interval,  and  another  performance  on  the  vile  piano, 
the  play  resumed  its  course, 

Jeremy  must  have  followed  it  with  some  part  of 
his  mind  of  the  existence  of  which  he  was  ignorant: 
for  when  it  was  all  over  he  had  a  reasonably  clear  no- 
tion of  what  it  had  been  about.  There  had  been  two 
lovers  and  a  villain  and  a  buffoon  who  fell  over  his 


.154      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

own  feet.  There  had  been  one  affecting  moment  when 
the  heroine,  deserted  and  hopeless,  had  been  deluged 
with  small  pieces  of  paper,  not  too  skilfully  sprinkled 
on  her,  while  she  walked  up  and  down,  striving  to 
comfort  her  child  and  lamenting  the  perfidy  of  man. 
And  the  play  itself,  as  well  as  the  acting,  had  been  of 
an  incredible  theatricality  and  exaggeration.  If  Jere- 
my's conscious  mind  had  been  active  while  the  per- 
formance was  going  on  he  could  not  but  have  followed 
every  point  with  amazement  and  indulged  in  some  in- 
teresting reflections  on  the  dramatic  tastes  of  his  new 
contemporaries.  As  it  was,  when  it  was  over  and  he 
was  able  to  look  back  on  it,  he  could  only  wonder 
whether  his  unaccountable  recollection  of  it  was  to  be 
believed. 

For  after  the  end  of  the  first  scene,  after  the  Lady 
Eva  had  spoken  to  him,  he  was  plunged  even  more 
deeply  into  that  delicious  but  alarming  turmoil  of  feel- 
ing. His  mind  unbidden  suggested  to  him  sobering 
considerations  only  for  the  pleasure,  as  it  appeared,  of 
seeing  them  flung  on  one  side.  There  was  no  certainty, 
no  probability  even,  that  the  girl  had  loved  him.  In 
his  story  there  was  enough  reason  why  she  should  look 
at  him  with  interest,  and  he  had  learnt  that  her  usual 
manner  was  frank  and  unstudied,  not  therefore  to  be 
too  easily  construed.  Yet  a  mad  certainty  rose  in 
his  heart  and  overwhelmed  this  sensible  thought. 
Jeremy  closed  his  eyes  resolutely  to  the  buffoon  on  the 
stage,  who  was  now  imitating  a  drunken  man  and 
abandoned  himself  to  visions  of  the  girl  at  his  side. 

At  that  moment  he  would  perhaps  have  been  unwill- 
ing to  be  awakened  to  speak  to  her,  even  to  embrace 
her.  That  would  come,  must  come;  but  this  exquisite 
dreaming,  hitherto  unknown  to  him,  filled  the  circle 


THE  LADY  EVA  155 

of  his  forces,  satisfied  all  his  desires.  He  pictured  her 
as  he  had  seen  her  half-a-dozen  times,  walking  across 
a  room,  lifting  her  eyes  to  his  with  some  question  in 
them,  once  riding,  once  with  a  piece  of  needlework 
in  her  hands,  of  which,  without  liking  it,  she  was  mak- 
ing a  sound  and  creditable  job.  He  thought  of  her 
clear,  wide  eyes,  her  free,  athletic  carriage,  her  pleas- 
ant voice.  For  a  little  while  he  was  in  neither  the 
strange  nor  the  familiar  world  of  his  twofold  experi- 
ence :  his  new  hope  had  dissolved  both  recent  and  an- 
cient memories  alike.  Then  suddenly  across  the  tex- 
ture of  his  passionate  meditation  came  a  thought  of 
himself.  He  shifted  uneasily  and  felt  cold.  Who  and 
what  was  he?  He  told  himself — a  sport  of  nature,  a 
young  man  unnaturally  old,  an  old  man  unnaturally 
young.  Could  he  be  certain  yet  what  trick  it  was  that 
Trehanoc's  ray  had  played  on  him?  Might  he  not, 
one  day,  to-morrow  or  a  year  hence,  perhaps  in  her 
very  arms,  suddenly  expire,  even  crumble  intO'  dust? 
He  shuddered  in  the  chilling  air  of  these  suggestions 
and  was  filled  with  misery.  But  the  next  moment  he 
could  see  himself  confessing  his  misery  to  the  Lady 
Eva  and  receiving  her  comfort.  1 

He  woke.  Mixed  with  the  light  clapping,  in  which 
from  time  to  time  he  had  mechanically  joined,  there 
was  a  stir  and  shuffle  as  though  the  audience  was  pre- 
paring to  depart;  and,  looking  up,  he  saw  the  whole 
cast  on  the  stage,  bowing  with  a  certain  air  of  final- 
ity, the  hero  and  the  villain  holding  each  a  hand  of 
the  heroine.  The  Speaker  was  rising  from  his  seat, 
and  at  that  sign  all  the  other  persons  in  the  room  rose, 
too,  and  waited.  Jeremy,  brought  down  out  of  dreams, 
searched  in  his  mind  for  something  to  say  to  the  Lady 
Eva  and  dared  not  look  at  her  until  he  had  found  it. 


156      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

But  when  he  turned  to  her  he  saw  that  she  was  staring 
in  another  direction.  A  servant  had  just  reached  the 
Speaker  and  had  apparently  given  him  a  letter.  The 
whole  assembly  stood  hushed  and  immobile  while  he 
read  it,  and  Jeremy,  his  breath  caught  by  an  inexplic- 
able sense  of  crisis,  saw  that,  half-way  through,  the 
old  man's  hand  jerked  suddenly  and  was  steady  again. 

The  interruption,  the  hushed  seconds  that  followed, 
seemed  to  spread  an  impalpable  sense  of  dismay 
through  the  hall.  Henry  Watkins,  his  fretful  expres- 
sion deepened  to  one  of  alarm,  made  his  way  to  the 
Speaker's  side  and  whispered  something  in  an  anxious 
voice;  but  the  old  man  waved  his  hand  impatiently 
and  went  on  reading. 

"What  is  it?"  Jeremy  whispered  sharply  to  the  Lady 
Eva. 

"I  don't  know  ...  I  don't  know  .  .  ."  she  uttered; 
and  then,  so  low  that  he  could  hardly  catch  it,  "I  am 
afraid  for  him.  .  .  ." 

Jeremy  stared  all  around  in  the  hope  that  somewhere 
he  might  find  some  enlightenment.  But  there  was  no 
trace  of  understanding  on  the  faces  of  any  of  the 
guests.  The  Lady  Burney  stood  lumpishly  by  her  hus- 
band in  an  attitude  of  annoyance  and  boredom.  Be- 
yond her  Thomas  Wells  half-leant  on  his  chair  in  a 
barbaric  but  graceful  pose,  like  that  of  a  hunting  ani- 
mal at  rest.  Jeremy  fancied  for  a  moment  that  he 
could  read  some  sort  of  comprehension,  some  sort 
of  satisfaction  even,  in  those  vulpine  features,  in  the 
small  eyes,  the  swelling  nostrils,  the  thin,  backward 
straining  mouth.  And  still  the  Speaker  read  on,  mo- 
tionless, without  giving  a  sign,  while  Henry  Watkins 
stood  at  his  elbow  as  though  waiting  for  an  order; 


THE  LADY  EVA  157 

and  still  the  Lady  Eva  gazed  at  them,  crumpling  rest- 
lessly with  one  hand  a  fold  of  her  dress. 

All  at  once  the  grouping  broke  up,  and  the-  Speaker's 
voice  came,  steady  and  clear  but  not  loud.  "I  must 
go  back  to  the  Treasury,"  he  said.  "I  am  sorry  I 
cannot  stay  to  speak  with  your  guests,  Henry  Watkins, 
but  you  must  dismiss  them.  I  wish  you  to  come  with 
me.     And  I  need  you,  too,  Jeremy  Tuft;  you  must 

follow  us  at  once.     And "  he  hesitated,  "if  you 

will  give  me  the  benefit  of  your  counsel  in  this  grave 
matter,  Thomas  Wells.  .  .  ."  The  Canadian  bowed 
a  little  and  grinned  more  thinly.  Jeremy  found  him- 
self in  a  state  of  confusion  walking  at  the  end  of  the 
Speaker's  party  towards  the  door.  In  front  of  him  the 
old  man  had  gripped  Henry  Watkins  firmly  by  the 
sleeve  and  was  talking  to  him  quietly  and  rapidly. 

Jeremy's  passing  by  was  the  sign  to  the  other  guests 
that  they  might  now  leave ;  and  as  he  went  through  the 
door  he  could  feel  them  thronging  behind  him.  He 
pressed  on  to  keep  the  Speaker  in  sight,  but  slackened 
his  pace  when  a  hand  fell  lightly  on  his  shoulder.  It 
was  Roger  Vaile. 

"Do  you  know  what  the  matter  is?"  Roger  asked. 

Jeremy  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  be  careful  of  that  Canadian.  I  saw  him 
looking  at  you  while  the  show  was  on,  and  he  doesn't 
like  you." 


CHAPTER  VIII 


DECLARATION    OF    WAR 


'T^HE  dark  and  undefined  cloud  which  had  fallen 
■*■  upon  the  reception  seemed  to  have  overshadowed 
the  Treasury  as  well.  The  Speaker  had  precipitately 
driven  thither,  taking  Henry  Watkins  with  him  in  the 
carriage  and  not  waiting  for  Jeremy,  who  reached  the 
door  only  in  time  to  see  that  he  must  follow  on  foot. 
The  Speaker's  unexpected  return,  coupled  with  the  un- 
usual expression  on  his  face  and  perhaps  some  rumor 
already  set  afloat,  had  unsettled  the  household.  When 
Jeremy  arrived  he  found  the  clerks  and  even  the  serv- 
ants, together  with  the  attendants  of  the  Lady  Burney 
and  the  Lady  Eva,  standing  about  in  little  groups  in 
the  entrance  hall.  They  were  talking  among  them- 
selves in  low  voices,  and  they  all  raised  their  eyes 
questioningly  to  his  as  he  passed  by.  There  was  a 
universal  atmosphere  of  confusion  and  alarm. 

At  the  door  which  led  from  the  entrance-hall  to- 
wards the  Speaker's  room,  Jeremy  paused  disconso- 
lately, uncertain  what  he  ought  to  do.  The  Speaker 
had  asked  for  his  help,  but  had  not  stayed  for  him. 
Perhaps  he  ought  to  go  to  the  Speaker;  but  he  was 
unwilling  to  intrude  into  what  seemed  to  be  a  council 
of  the  first  importance.  His  doubts  were  relieved  by 
a  servant,  who  came  anxiously  searching  among  the 

158 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR  159 

loiterers  and  appeared  relieved  when  he  caught  sight 
of  Jeremy. 

"Here  you  are,  sir!"  he  said.  "The  Speaker  has 
been  asking  for  you  ever  since  he  came  back.  Will 
you  please  go  to  his  room  at  once?"  Jeremy's  sense 
of  a  moment  of  crisis  was  by  no  means  lessened  as 
he  threaded  the  dark,  empty  corridors  of  the  private 
wing. 

When  he  entered  he  found  himself  unnoticed,  and 
had  a  few  seconds  in  which  to  distinguish  the  members 
of  the  little  group  clustered  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room.  The  Speaker  was  standing  motionless,  with  his 
eyes  turned  upwards  to  the  ceiling,  in  an  attitude  ap- 
parently indicating  complete  unconcern.  Yet,  to  Jeremy 
he  seemed  to  be  controlling  himself  by  an  enormous 
effort  of  will,  while  his  whole  body  quivered  with  sup- 
pressed excitement.  Below  him  and,  to  the  eye,  domi- 
nated by  him,  five  men  sat  around  a  table.  Jeremy  saw 
at  once  the  Canadian  and  Henry  Watkins  and  another 
chief  notable,  named  John  Hammond,  with  whom  he 
was  slightly  acquainted.  The  others  had  their  backs 
to  him;  but  their  backs  were  unfamiliar,  somehow 
out  of  place,  with  something  uneasy  and  hostile  in  the 
set  of  their  shoulders  .  As  he  came  into  the  room, 
Henry  Watkins  was  leaning  forward  to  one  of  these 
strangers  and  saying  earnestly: 

"I  want  to  make  certain  that  we  understand  what 
this  sentence  means."  He  tapped  a  paper  in  front  of 
him  as  he  spoke. 

"T'  letter  meaans  what  it  saays,"  the  stranger  re- 
plied gruffly.  His  words  and  the  broad,  rasping  ac- 
cent in  which  they  were  spoken  came  to  Jeremy  as 
a  shock,  as  something  incomprehensibly  foreign  to 
what  he  had  expected.     His  colleague  nodded  vigor- 


i6o      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

ously,  and  signified  his  agreement  in  a  sound  between  a 
mutter  and  a  growl. 

"Yes,"  Henry  Watkins  began  again  patiently;  "but 
what  I  want  to  know " 

The  Speaker  suddenly  forsook  his  rigid  posture, 
with  the  effect  of  a  storm  let  loose,  and,  striding  to 
the  table,  struck  it  violently  with  his  fist.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  last  fetter  of  his  restraint  had  given  way 
without  warning. 

"That's  no  matter,"  he  cried  hoarsely.  "What  I 
want  to  know  is  this :  if  I  make  another  offer,  will  you 
take  it  back  to  your  master?" 

The  stranger  squared  his  shoulders  and  thrust  his 
chin  forward  with  an  air  of  dogged  ferocity.  "We 
caame  to  get  yes  or  noa,"  he  answered  in  a  deep  grum- 
bling voice.     "T'  letter  saays  soa." 

Henry  Watkins  started  at  this  outburst  in  the  ne- 
gotiations and  looked  around  him  with  an  appearance 
of  fright.  In  doing  this  he  caught  sight  of  Jeremy 
hesifating  by  the  door,  and  whispered  a  word  to  the 
Speaker,  who  cried  out,  without  moderating  the  vio- 
lence of  his  tone  :  "There  you  are !  Come  here  now, 
I  want  you."  And  turning  again  to  the  strangers,  he 
added,  with  an  odd  note  of  triumph :  "This  is  Jeremy 
Tuft.     Maybe  you've  heard  of  him." 

The  strangers,  who  had  not  yet  noticed  Jeremy's  ar- 
rival, slewed  around  together  and  stared  at  him;  and 
one  of  them  said :  "Oh,  ay,  we've  heerd  on  him,  reet 
enough."  The  others  at  the  table  stared  too,  while 
Jeremy  reluctantly  advanced.  But  before  he  could 
speak,  Henry  Watkins  sprang  up  and  murmured  im- 
portunately in  the  Speaker's  ear.  Jeremy  could  catch 
the  words: 

"Talk  privately  .  .  .  before  we  decide  .  .  ." 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR  161 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Speaker  roughly,  aloud. 
"Have  it  your  own  way.  But  I  won't  change  my 
mind." 

Henry  Watkins  returned  to  the  table  and  addressed 
the  strangers  suavely :  "The  Speaker  will  give  you  his 
answer  in  a  very  short  time,"  he  said.  "Will  you  be 
so  good  as  to  withdraw  while  he  considers  it?"  And, 
when  they  had  uncouthly  assented,  he  conducted  them 
to  the  door,  showed  them  into  an  ante-room,  and  re- 
turned, his  face  full  of  anxiety. 

Jeremy  stood  apart  in  a  condition  of  great  discom- 
fort. He  realized  that  he  was  regarded  by  all,  save 
the  Speaker,  as  an  intruder,  the  reason  for  whose  pres- 
ence none  could  conjecture.  He  was  not  relieved  by 
the  dubious  glance  which  Henry  Watkins  threw  at 
him  before  he  began  to  speak.  But  the  Speaker  made 
no  sign,  and  the  anxious  counselor  proceeded,  with 
an  air  of  distraction  and  flurry. 

"Think,  sir,"  he  pleaded,  "before  you  refuse.  It  is 
so  grave  a  thing  to  begin  again — after  a  hundred 
years.  And  who  can  tell  what  the  end  of  it  may  be? 
We  know  that  they  are  formidable " 

"All  this  is  nonsense  to  Jeremy  Tuft,"  the  Speaker 
interrupted  harshly,  "We  must  tell  him  what  the 
matter  is  before  we  go  any  further."  Henry  Watkins, 
with  a  movement  of  his  hands,  plainly  expressed  his 
opinion  that  there  was  no  good  reason  why  it  should 
not  all  remain  nonsense  to  Jeremy;  and  Jeremy  felt 
slightly  less  at  ease  than  before. 

But  the  Speaker  had  begun  to  explain,  with  the 
sharp  jerkiness  of  impatience  in  his  voice :  "We've  had 
a  message  from  the  people  up  north.  Perhaps  you 
could  see  for  yourself  what  sort  of  men  they  are. 
They  are  very  unlike  any  one  you  have  ever  met  here 


i62      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

— rough,  fierce,  quarrelsome  men.  They  have  kept 
some  of  their  machinery  still  going  up  there — in  some 
of  the  towns  they  even  work  in  factories.  They  have 
been  growing  more  and  more  unlike  us  for  a  hundred 
years,  and  now  the  end  has  come — they  want  to  force 
a  quarrel  on  us.     Do  you  understand?" 

Jeremy  replied  that  he  did,  and  thought  that  he  was 
beginning  to  understand  a  great  deal  besides. 

"Well,  then,"  the  Speaker  went  on,  growing  a  little 
calmer,  "I  told  you  when  first  we  met  that  we  were 
standing  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  Now  these  are 
the  people  that  want  to  throw  us  over.  The  chief  of 
them,  the  Chairman  of  Bradford,  has  sent  me  a  mes- 
sage. I  won't  explain  the  details  to  you.  It  comes 
to  this,  that  in  future  he  proposes  to  colleci  the  taxes 
in  his  district,  not  for  me,  but  for  himself.  I  must 
say  he  very  kindly  offers  to  send  me  a  contribution 
for  the  upkeep  of  the  railways.  But  he  wants  a  plain 
yes  or  no  at  once ;  and  if  we  say  no,  then  it  means 
WAR!"  In  the  last  sentence  his  voice  had  begim  to 
run  upwards :  he  pronounced  the  final  word  in  a  sud- 
den startling  shout,  and  then  stood  silent  for  a  moment, 
his  eyes  burning  fiercely.  When  he  continued,  it  was 
in  a  quieter  and  more  reasonable  tone.  "There  has 
been  no  fighting  in  this  country  since  the  end  of  the 
Troubles,  a  hundred  years  or  so  ago.  A  brawl  here 
and  there,  a  fight  with  criminals  or  discontented  la- 
borers— I  don't  say ;  but  no  more  than  enough  to  make 
our  people  dislike  it.  Of  all  of  us  here  in  this  room, 
only  you  and  Thomas  Wells  know  what  war  is.  Now" 
— and  here  he  became  persuasive  and  put  a  curious 
smooth  emphasis  on  each  word — "now,  knowing  all 
that  you  do  knozv,  what  advice  would  you  give  me?" 

Jeremy  stood  irresolute.    Henry  Watkins  and  John 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR  163 

Hammond  seemed  to  throw  up  their  hands  in  per- 
plexed despair,  and  the  Canadian's  thin,  superciHous 
smile  grew  a  trifle  wider  and  thinner.  The  Speaker 
waited,  rocking  hugely  to  and  fro  on  his  feet  with  a 
gentle  motion. 

"I  think,"  Jeremy  began,  and  was  disconcerted  to 
find  himself  so  hoarse  that  the  words  came  muffled  and 
inaudible.  He  cleared  his  throat.  "I  think  I  hardly 
know  enough  about  it  for  my  advice  to  be  of  any  use. 
I  don't  even  know  what  troops  you  have." 

The  Speaker  made  a  deep  booming  sound  in  his 
chest,  clasped  his  hands  sharply  together,  and  looked 
as  though  he  were  about  to  burst  out  again  in  anger. 
Then  he  abruptly  regained  his  self-command  and  said : 
"Then  you  shall  speak  later.  Henry  Watkins,  what 
do  you  say  ?  Remember,  we  must  make  up  our  minds 
forever  while  we  are  talking  now.  It  will  not  do  to 
argue  with  them,  or  temporize  or  make  them  any  other 
offer." 

Henry  Watkins  got  up  from  his  seat  and  went  to 
the  Speaker's  side  as  though  he  wished  to  address  him 
confidentially.  Jeremy  had  an  impression  of  a  long 
dark  face,  unnaturally  lengthened  by  deep  gloom,  and 
two  prominent  eyes  that  not  even  the  strongest  emotion 
could  make  more  than  dully  earnest. 

"I  beg  of  you,  sir,"  he  implored,  low  and  hurried, 
holding  out  his  hands,  "to  attempt  to  argue  with  them, 
to  offer  them  some  compromise.  You  know  very  well 
that  they  are  forcing  this  quarrel  on  us,  because  they 
are  sure  that  they  are  the  stronger,  as  I  believe  them 
to  be.  And  anything,  anything  would  be  better  than 
to  begin  the  Troubles  again !" 

The  Speaker  surveyed  him  as  if  from  an  immense 
height.     "And  do  you  think  that  we  can  avoid  the 


i64      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

Troubles  again,  and  worse  things  even  than  that,  in  any 
way  except  by  defeating  these  people?  Am  I  to  sur- 
render all  that  my  grandfather  and  my  great-grand- 
father won?  Do  you  not  see  that  they  have  sent  us 
just  these  two  men,  stupider  and  stubborner  even  than 
the  rest,  so  that  we  shall  not  be  able  to  argue  with 
them?  They  have  been  told  to  carry  back  either  our 
yes  or  our  no.  If  we  do  not  give  them  a  yes,  they 
will  take  no  by  default.  There  is  no  other  choice  for 
us.     What  do  you  think,  John  Hammond?" 

'T  agree  with  Henry  Watkins,"  said  the  big  man 
hastily.  He  had  not  spoken  before,  and  seemed  to  do 
so  now  only  with  great  reluctance. 

"Then  we  need  not  hear  your  reasons.  And  you, 
Thomas  Wells?" 

"Why,  fight,"  said  the  Canadian  promptly;  and  then 
he  continued  in  a  deliberate  drawl,  stretching  himself 
a  little  as  he  spoke:  "These  folks  are  spoiling  for 
trouble,  and  they'll  give  you  no  peace  until  they  get  it. 
I  guess  your  troops  aren't  any  good — I've  seen  some  of 
them — but  I  know  no  way  to  make  them  so  except  by 
fighting.  And  besides,  I've  an  idea  that  there's  some- 
thing else  you  haven't  told  us  yet." 

Jeremy  shot  a  suspicious  glance  at  him,  and  received 
in  return  a  grin  that  was  full  at  once  of  amusement 
and  dislike.  The  Speaker  appeared  to  be  balancing 
considerations  in  his  mind.  When  he  spoke  again, 
it  was  in  a  tone  more  serious  and  deliberate  than  he 
had  yet  used. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "my  decision  remains  unal- 
tered. I  shall  refuse  and  there  will  be  war.  But 
Thomas  Wells  is  right.  I  have  had  something  in  my 
thoughts  that  I  have  not  yet  disclosed  to  you.  But 
I  will  tell  you  now  what  it  is,  because  I  do  not  wish 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR  165 

you  to  lose  your  spirits  or  to  be  half-hearted  in  sup- 
porting me.  Only  I  must  command  you" — he 
paused  on  the  word,  looked  around  sternly,  and  re- 
peated it — "I  must  command  you  not  to  speak  a  word 
of  it  outside  this  room  until  I  give  you  leave."  He 
paused  again  and  surveyed  them  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  delays  his  certain  triumph  for  a  moment  in  order 
the  better  to  savor  it.  "Gentlemen,  when  our  troops 
take  the  field  against  these  rebels,  they  will  have  some- 
thing that  no  other  army  in  the  world  has  got.  They 
will  have  guns!" 

The  great  announcement  had  come,  had  passed,  and 
seemed  to  have  failed  of  its  effect.  Silence  reigned  in 
the  council.  Henry  Watkins  shifted  from  one  foot 
to  the  other  and  regarded  the  Speaker  with  gloomy 
intentness.  Then  Thomas  Wells  broke  the  hush,  with 
a  faint  tone  of  disappointment  in  his  voice: 

"Is  that  it?  Well,  I  don't  know  how  that  will  work 
out.  I  thought  that  perhaps  you  had  got  some  of  the 
bosses  up  there  in  your  pay." 

Henry  Watkins  was  as  silent  as  his  companion,  be- 
wildered, disturbed,  apprehensive.  But  the  Speaker 
continued,  his  air  of  jubilation  increasing  rather  than 
diminishing. 

"And  not  only  have  we  guns,  but  we  have  also  a 
trained  artilleryman  to  handle  them.  Jeremy  Tuft,  I 
must  tell  you,  fought  in  the  artillery  in  the  great  war 
against  the  Germans  before  the  Troubles  began.  And 
now,  Jeremy  Tuft,  let  us  hear  your  opinion,  remem- 
bering that  we  have  guns  and  they  have  none.  Do  you 
think  we  should  fight  or  surrender?" 

Jeremy  was  hard  put  to  it  not  to  give  way  physically 
before  the  old  man's  blazing  and  menacing  stare.  His 
mind  scurried  hastily  through  half  a  hundred  points 


i66      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

of  doubt.  How  could  he  know,  when  he  had  been  in 
this  world  no  more  than  a  few  weeks?  And  yet  it 
seemed  pretty  clear,  from  what  he  had  heard,  that  the 
soldiers  from  Yorkshire  would  be  better  than  those 
that  the  Speaker  had  at  his  disposal.  He  could  see 
only  too  plainly  that  the  Speaker  was  trusting  to  the 
guns  to  work  a  miracle  for  him.  He  remembered 
that  the  guns  were  only  just  finished,  had  not  been 
tested,  that  no  gun-crew  to  fight  them  had  yet  been 
trained  or  even  thought  of.  He  had  a  sick  feeling 
that  an  intolerable  responsibility  rested  on  him,  that 
he  must  explain  how  much  the  effect  of  two  guns 
in  an  infantry  battle  would  depend  on  luck.  He  re- 
membered that  time  at  Arras,  when  they  had  got  prop^ 
erly  caught  in  the  enemy's  counter-battery  work,  and 
he  had  sat  in  his  dug-out,  meditating  on  the  people, 
whoever  they  were,  that  had  started  the  war,  and  won- 
dering how  human  beings  could  be  so  diabolical  .  .  . 
He  v/oke  abruptly  from  this  train  of  thought  as  he 
raised  his  eyes  and  saw  the  Speaker  still  regarding  him 
with  that  terrible,  that  numbing  stare.  His  strength 
gave  way.    He  stammered  weakly  : 

"Of  course,  the  guns  would  make  a  great  differ- 
ence. .  .  ." 

The  Speaker  caught  up  his  words.  "They  would 
make  just  the  difference  we  need.  That  is  why  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  fight  now.  Let  those  two 
men  come  in  again." 

There  was  dead  silence  in  the  room  for  a  moment, 
and  Jeremy  was  aware  of  the  progress  of  a  breathless 
spiritual  conflict.  He  could  feel  his  own  inarticulate 
doubts,  the  timidity  of  Watkins  and  Hammond,  the 
cynical  indifference  of  the  Canadian,  hanging,  like 
dogs  around  the  neck  of  a  bull,  on  the  old  man's  fan- 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR  167 

atical  determination.  Then  something  impalpable 
seemed  to  snap :  it  was  as  though  the  bull  had  shaken 
himself  free.  Without  uttering  a  sound,  Henry  Wat- 
kins  went  to  the  door  of  the  ante-room  and  held  it 
open.  The  two  envoys  from  the  north  again  appeared. 
They  seemed  unwilling  to  come  more  than  a  pace  into 
the  room;  perhaps  they  thought  it  unnecessary  since 
they  wished  to  hear  only  a  single  word. 

The  Speaker  was  as  anxious  as  they  to  be  brief.  "I 
refuse,"  he  said  with  great  mildness. 

"That's  t'  aanswer,  then  ?"  asked  the  first  envoy  with 
a  kind  of  surly  satisfaction. 

"That's  t'  aanswer.  Coom  on,"  his  companion  said, 
before  any  one  else  could  reply. 

"Good  daay  to  you  then,  sirs,"  the  first  muttered 
phlegmatically ;  and  with  stumping  strides  they  lum- 
bered to  the  door.  Henry  Watkins  hurried  after  them 
to  find  a  servant  to  bring  them  their  horses. 


No  less  than  the  rest  the  Lady  Eva  was  disturbed 
and  made  uneasy  in  her  mind  by  the  unexpected  end 
of  Henry  Watkins's  reception.  The  short  drive  back 
to  the  Treasury,  sitting  beside  her  mother  in  the  vast, 
lumbering  carriage,  was  a  torment  to  her.  Involuntar- 
ily she  asked  questions,  well  aware  that  the  Lady 
Burney  neither  knew,  nor  was  interested  in,  the  an- 
swers. She  was  obliged  to  speak  to  assuage  her  rest- 
lessness, and  expected  the  reproof  which  she  received. 

"It's  not  your  business,"  said  the  Lady  Burney 
heavily.  "You  must  not  meddle  in  your  father's  af- 
fairs. It  shows  a  very  forward  and  unbecoming  spirit 
in  you  to  have  noticed  that  anything  happened  out  of 


i68      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

the  ordinary.  What  people  would  say  of  you  if  they 
knew  as  much  of  your  behavior  as  I  do,  I  simply  can- 
not think.  They  must  see  too  much  as  it  is.  Re- 
member that  we  ought  to  set  an  example  to  other 
people." 

The  Lady  Eva  was  silent,  white  with  restraint  and 
anxiety.  But  when  they  arrived  at  the  Treasury  and 
came  into  the  atmosphere  of  expectancy  which  filled 
the  entrance-hall,  she  again  showed  signs  of  excite- 
ment, and  seemed  to  wish  to  stop  and  share  in  the  gen- 
eral state  of  suspense.  Her  mother  ordered  her  to  her 
room  in  a  thick  intense  whisper.  She  remembered  her- 
self and  went  on,  sighing  once  sharply. 

She  found  her  room  empty.  It  was  a  pleasant  place, 
looking  over  the  gardens,  furnished  in  an  awkward  and 
mixed  style  which  reflected  her  distaste  for  her  mother's 
notions  of  decoration,  combined  with  her  own  inability 
to  think  of  any  better  substitute.  A  riding-whip  and 
gloves  were  thrown  down  on  a  table,  beside  a  half- 
finished  piece  of  needlework.  Writing  materials  and 
a  book  lay  on  another.  One  of  her  eccentricities,  not 
regarded  so  severely  by  the  Lady  Burney  as  the  rest, 
was  her  wish  to  retain  such  slight  knowledge  of  the 
arts  of  reading  and  writing  as  the  scanty  education 
of  the  women  of  that  time  had  given  her.  But  it  was 
a  hard  business,  starting  from  so  insecure  a  founda- 
tion and  proceeding  with  so  little  encouragement.  The 
old  books  that  she  was  able  to  obtain  were  very  dull, 
very  hard  to  understand,  and  told  her  little  of  what 
she  wanted  to  know.  Her  companions  of  her  own  age 
laughed  at  her  heartily  for  reading  with  so  much  devo- 
tion, after  she  had  been  released  from  the  school-room, 
the  works  of  the  great  poet.  Lord  Tennyson,  from 
-which  they  had  all  been  taught  their  own  language. 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR  169 

She  desired  vaguely  to  be  able  to  help  her  father, 
whose  loneliness  she  obscurely  but  poignantly  felt 
But  when  in  order  to  understand  the  old  times  she 
struggled  through  ragged  and  mildewed  books,  she 
despaired  at  the  little  assistance  she  was  able  to  get 
from  them. 

She  once  expressed  a  timid  wish  that  she  might  be 
allowed  tO'  learn  history  from  Father  Henry  Dean,  of 
whose  knowledge  she  had  heard  confused  but  mar- 
velous stories.  But  on  this  occasion  her  father  had 
unexpectedly  joined  her  mother  tO'  prevent  her.  He 
had  said  bluntly  that  the  priest  was  an  addled  old 
man,  while  the  Lady  Burney  had  said  that  the  sug- 
gestion was  both  improper  and  dangerous.  Between 
the  two  opinions,  her  wish  was  effectually  frustrated. 
Indeed,  she  got  little  encouragement  from  her  father, 
whose  loneliness  often  seemed  to  her  to  be  in  great 
part  purely  wilful.  Now  and  then  he  would  listen  to 
her  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  rhapsodize  cloudily 
for  a  long  time  on  his  hopes  and  fears.  But  when 
he  did  this,  after  the  first  few  sentences  he  was  up 
and  away  from  her;  and  she  soon  realized  that  he 
talked  to  her  only  instead  of  talking  to  himself,  and 
did  not  for  the  purpose  much  alter  his  method  of 
address. 

A  minute  or  two  after  she  came  into  her  room,  two 
of  her  attendants  followed  her,  asking,  without  much 
hope,  for  news.  She  shook  her  head  sharply,  with 
compressed  lips.  She  had  no  news,  she  knew  nothing 
of  the  danger  that  threatened  her  father  and  had 
shaken  his  steady  old  hand  so  abruptly  while  he  was 
reading  that  mysterious  letter.  The  two  girls  broke  at 
once  into  a  babble  of  rumors  and  conjectures.  The 
plague  had  reached  England  again,  or  the  Chinese  had 


lyo      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

begun  to  invade  Europe,  or  the  Pope  had  done  some- 
thing or  other  that  was  unexpected,  it  was  not  clear 
what. 

These  attendants  were  daughters  of  good  families 
who  came  to  be  half  maids,  half  companions  to  the 
Lady  Burney  and  the  Lady  Eva  for  a  year  or  two,  as 
a  way  of  graduating  in  the  world,  much  as  young  men 
came  to  be  clerks  to  the  Speaker.  But  the  cases  were 
not  quite  parallel.  All  young  men  of  family  entered 
the  Speaker's  service,  or  would  do  so  if  they  could. 
There  was  a  certain  tradition  of  gentility  in  the  work 
of  government.  But  only  the  daughters  of  the  poorer 
and  smaller  houses  came  to  wait  on  the  Speaker's  wife 
and  daughter.  The  rich  families,  though  they  obeyed 
the  Speaker,  would  not  accord  him  royal  prestige  or  his 
wife  and  daughter  the  privilege  of  noble  ladies-in- 
waiting.  They  treated  him  and  his  household  with  re- 
spect, not  with  deference.  Only  the  lesser  among  them 
thought  that  something  might  be  gained  by  their 
daughters  holding  positions  at  what  they  would  fain 
regard  as  a  court,  or  that  they  might  perhaps  make 
good  marriages,  a  hope  which  now  and  then  miscar- 
ried into  something  less  gratifying.  They  maintained 
that  it  was  an  honor  to  serve  the  ruling  family,  and 
were  sneered  at  by  their  greater  fellows. 

The  Lady  Eva,  though  she  was  often  indolent  and 
was  pleased  to  be  waited  on,  would  have  preferred  to 
be  attended  by  servants.  These  girls  claimed  some 
sort  of  equality  with  her,  and,  though  she  had  no  ob- 
jection to  that,  she  wished  that  she  could  prevent  them 
speaking  to  her,  unless  she  called  on  them.  She  found 
them  tedious.  Now  she  listened  to  them  patiently, 
and  said  at  last  with  a  faint  ironic  smile : 

"Do  you  really  know  anything  about  it?"     They 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR  171 

began  to  protest  and  to  double  their  rumors,  but  she 
stopped  them  with  a  lifted  hand.  "There  is  a  council 
in  my  father's  room,  is  there  not?"  And  whcxi  they 
had  said  that  there  was,  she  went  on:  "Can  you  tell 
me  who  has  been  called  to  it?" 

"Jeremy  Tuft  was  called  to  it  just  before  we  came 
to  you,"  answered  Rose,  simpering  a  little  and  placing 
her  head  on  one  side.  Jeremy  did  not  know  that 
among  the  young  girls  in  the  Treasury  he  was  the 
object  of  some  longings  and  the  subject  of  some  con- 
fessions. He  drew  attention  because  of  the  air  of  mys- 
tery which  surrounded  his  short  and  rather  common- 
place person.  It  was  fashionable  to  affect  a  deliciously 
shuddering  attraction  towards  the  elements  of  eeriness 
and  terror  in  what  was  known  of  his  story.  But  this 
fashion  was  not  allowed  to  interfere  with  any  more 
practical  project  of  love-making  that  happened  to  be 
going. 

"I  saw  him  go,"  affirmed  Mary  with  an  even  more 
pronounced  simper. 

"Is  Thomas  Wells  there?"  the  Lady  Eva  shot  at  her 
quickly.  Mary  winced,  looked  guilty  and  said  that 
she  believed  he  was.  Then  she  fell  silent  in  a  self- 
conscious  attitude. 

The  Lady  Eva  frowned  a  little.  These  girls,  though 
she  despised  them  for  their  shallowness,  led  fuller 
lives  than  she.  They  conformed  more  easily  than  she 
did  with  the  prevailing  ideal  of  womanly  conduct ;  and 
yet  in  the  Treasury  they  were  free  to  do  much  what 
they  pleased,  to  choose  lovers  if  they  were  foolish 
enough  ...  as  she  guessed  this  girl  had  been.  And 
the  reflection  had  annoyed  her,  for  she  thought  it 
likely  that  she  would  have  to  marry  Thomas  Wells. 
He  and  her  father  had  been  bargaining  interminably 


172      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

about  something,  her  father  importunate  but  cozening, 
Thomas  Wells  smiling  but  obdurate.  It  might  occur 
to  her  father  at  any  moment  to  throw  her  person  into 
the  scale;  and  she  would  not  like  for  a  husband  the 
lover  of  one  of  her  attendants.  Then,  as  she  stood 
musing,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  her  with  great  force 
that  she  would  not  like  tO'  marry  Thomas  Wells  in  any 
circumstances.  Strange !  She  had  been  long  ac- 
customed to  the  idea  that  she,  her  father's  only  child, 
must  marry  some  one  who  would  be  chosen  to  become 
his  heir;  and  she  had  quite  calmly  contemplated  the 
likelihood  of  Thomas  Wells  being  chosen.  Only 
to-day  did  she  perceive  that  the  idea  was  distasteful 
to  her,  and  she  wondered  why.  A  vague  answer  pre- 
sented itself.  .  .  . 

"Go  back,  both  of  you,"  she  commanded,  "and  bring 
me  the  news  when  you  hear  any."  They  left  her  at 
once,  Rose  anxious  to  return  to  the  center  of  excite- 
ment, and  Mary  glad  to  escape  any  further  uncom- 
fortable questions. 

The  Lady  Eva,  left  alone,  walked  up  and  down  her 
room  with  short,  impatient  steps.  It  was  very  difficult 
to  wait  thus  for  news,  more  difficult  still  in  view  of 
the  fact  that  she  might  not  get  any.  She  conceived 
cloudy  romantic  notions  of  intervening  in  the  council, 
of  persuading  her  father  in  the  middle  of  it  that  she 
understood  him  and  was  with  him  against  all  the  rest 
of  the  world.  She  walked  towards  the  door  in  an 
exalted  fit,  certain  that  now  at  least  in  this  moment 
of  anxiety  she  could  convince  him.  Then  she  remem- 
bered other  appeals,  made  when  she  was  alone  with 
him  and  when  his  mood  had  seemed  to  promise  sym- 
pathy. But  he  had  smiled  at  her,  patted  her  head  or 
her  hand,  and  answered  vaguely  in  words  that  meant 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR  173 

nothing  and  humiliated  her.  Once,  gathering  from 
one  of  the  soliloquies,  in  which  he  so  evidently  forgot 
her  presence,  that  he  was  concerned  by  the  state  of  the 
railways,  she  had  brooded  on  the  problem  through 
sleepless  nights,  at  last  hitting  on  a  plan,  which  she 
laid  eagerly  before  him.  It  had  seemed  as  crude  and 
childish  to  her  as  to  him,  after  his  first  comment.  A 
flash  of  realism  showed  her  the  injured  and  aston- 
ished big  men  at  the  council,  if  she  appeared  there,  the 
grinning  contempt  of  Thomas  Wells,  her  father's 
anger.    She  turned  away  again  from  the  door. 

Minutes  passed.  She  went  through  stages  of  care- 
less dullness,  of  unbearable  suspense.  At  last,  moved 
by  an  ungovernable  longing,  she  left  the  room.  She 
intended  no  longer  to  go  to  her  father,  but  she  would 
at  least  see  the  door  behind  which  he  was  sitting  with 
the  others.  She  had  an  unreasonable  certainty,  which 
she  could  not  examine,  that  waiting  would  be  easier 
near  the  place  where  all  was  being  decided. 

She  slipped  along  the  corridor  as  softly  as  she  could, 
ruefully  aware  that  she  did  not  usually  move  quietly 
and  had  often  been  reproved  for  it.  But  the  intensity 
of  her  purpose  helped  her  to  avoid  anything  that  could 
draw  notice  to  her  strange  conduct.  Soon  the  corri- 
dor was  cut  by  another  at  right  angles,  which  a  few 
steps  to  the  left  led  to  the  door  of  the  Speaker's  room. 
At  the  corner  the  Lady  Eva  paused  and  looked  cau- 
tiously around.  In  this  part  of  the  ill-constructed  house 
reigned  a  perpetual  dusk,  and  any  passer-by  would 
be  heard  by  her  long  before  he  could  see  her. 

Her  certainty  was  justified.  Waiting  was  easier 
here;  and  the  time  slipped  by  less  oppressively.  She 
did  not  know  how  long  she  had  been  standing  pressed 
close  against  the  wall,  when  her  father's  door  opened 


174      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

and  two  men  came  out  and  stamped  up  the  corridor  to 
the  right.  Even  in  that  gloom  she  could  see  that  they 
were  strangers;  and  their  odd  looks  and  something 
odd  in  their  manner,  as  though  they  were  departing 
with  a  sinister  purpose,  increased  her  curiosity.  She 
craned  her  neck  to  keep  them  in  sight  as  long  as  she 
could,  and  drew  back  hastily  when  Henry  Watkins 
came  out.  He  was  obviously  distressed,  and,  as  he 
went  by  her,  following  the  strangers,  he  was  rapidly 
clenching  and  unclenching  his  hands. 

A  minute  passed.  Then  the  door  opened  again  and 
Thomas  Wells  sauntered  into  the  corridor.  He  hesi- 
tated by  the  corner  where  she  stood,  and  then  thrust  his 
hands  into  his  pockets,  and  strolled  after  the  others, 
whistling  under  his  breath.  She  could  still  hear  his 
steps  when  John  Hammond  emerged  ^nd  also  followed 
with  bowed  shoulders  and  dejected  bearing.  The 
Lady  Eva's  sense  of  terror  grew  greater  and  she  won- 
dered whether  the  news,  whatever  it  might  be,  would 
not  be  come  at  easier  elsewhere.  But  her  father  and 
Jeremy  Tuft  were  still  conversing  behind  the  closed 
door  and  she  longed  to  know  what  they  were  saying. 
When  she  first  met  him  she  had  had  a  ^fleeting  idea 
that  he  might  prove  to  be  a  bridge  between  her  and 
her  father. 

A  long  interval  elapsed  and  left  her  still  in  suspense. 
'Once  she  went  a  few  paces  in  the  direction  of  her  own 
room,  but  she  was  ineluctably  drawn  back  again.  She 
stared  desperately  behind  her,  to  the  right,  at  the 
ground,  anywhere  rather  than  at  her  father's  -door, 
which  had  for  her  a  fascination  she  felt  she  must  resist. 
She  was  not  looking  at  it  when  she  heard  the  sound  of 
the  handle.     When  she  looked,  it  was  standing  wide, 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR  175 

and  Jeremy  and  her  father  were  framed  in  the  opening, 
their  faces  lit  from  the  windows  in  the  room. 

Her  father's  face  wore  an  expression  of  exuhation 
which  she  had  never  seen  there  before,  and,  with  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  was  stooping  over  Jeremy,  who 
looked  worried,  sullen,  fatigued. 

"Then  all  will  be  ready  in  a  week,"  the  old  man  was 
saying. 

"Yes,  they'll  be  ready  ...  so  far  as  that  goes," 
Jeremy  replied  in  a  heavy  toneless  voice.  "But  there's 
another  thing  we  haven't  thought  of.  They  haven't 
been  tested  yet." 

"They  can't  be  tested  now,"  the  Speaker  said  firmly. 
"It  would  take  too  long,  and  besides,  we  mustn't  have 
the  slightest  risk  of  the  news  leaking  out  before  we 
first  use  them.  And  you  say  that  you  are  satisfied 
with  them,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  as  far  as  I  can  see,"  Jeremy  muttered.  "But 
there  may  be  something  wrong  that  I  haven't  noticed." 

"No  doubt  there  may,"  the  Speaker  agreed.  "But 
if  there  is,  it  would  be  too  late  to  remedy  it;  and  we 
should  certainly  be  beaten  without  them.  We  may  as 
well  disregard  that." 

"But  if  there  is,"  Jeremy  said  with  an  air  of  pro- 
test, raising  his  voice  a  little,  "we  may  be  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  Speaker  murmured,  "you  may  all  be 
blown  up.  But  there  .  .  ."  He  drew  Jeremy  by  the 
shoulder  into  the  corridor,  and  both  their  faces  came 
into  the  shadow.  The  Lady  Eva,  seized  by  a  sudden 
terror,  picked  up  her  skirts  and  ran,  miraculously 
noiseless,  back  to  her  room. 


CHAPTER  IX 


MARCHING  OUT 


THE  nightmare  settled  again  around  Jeremy  with 
double  darkness  and  bewilderment.  Again  he 
labored  in  the  work-shops  with  his  octogenarian  as- 
sistants, but  this  time  at  first  under  a  new  oppression 
and  a  new  hopelessness.  Yet  in  some  ways  his  mind 
was  easier  since  he  had  understood  that  the  frenzied 
haste  which  the  Speaker  urged  on  him  was  not  urged 
without  reason.  After  the  council  of  war,  the  ter- 
rible old  man,  still  jubilant,  still  strung  up  to  the  high- 
est pitch  of  nervous  energy,  opened  his  mind  to  Jeremy 
without  reserve.  Jeremy,  alarmed  by  his  shining  e3'^es, 
his  feverish  manner,  his  wild  and  abrupt  gestures,  still 
could  not  help  seeing  that  his  discourse  was  that  of  a 
sane  man,  a  practical  statesman,  who  was  putting  all 
he  had  on  a  single  throw  because  there  was  no  other 
choice. 

"My  family  has  ruled  without  dispute,"  the 
Speaker  said,  "for  a  hundred  years — and  that  is  a 
long  time.  We  had  no  position,  we  merely  stepped 
into  the  place  of  the  old  government,  and  the  people 
let  us  because  they  were  so  tired.  They  obeyed  us  be- 
cause they  had  been  in  the  habit  of  obeying  us,  when 
there  was  no*one  else  for  them  to  follow.  But  we  were 
not  chosen,  and  we  are  too  new  to  claim  divine  right. 

176 


MARCHING  OUT  177 

We  cannot  even  look  to  our  religion  for  support,  be- 
cause the  country  is  divided.  We  here  in  the  south 
are  mostly  by  way  of  being  Catholics,  but  though  the 
Holy  Father  w^ould  give  us  his  help,  we  have  never 
dared  to  accept  it.  They  are  violent  Methodists  in 
Wales,  and  in  Yorkshire  and  the  north  they  are  nearly 
all  Spiritualists." 

Jeremy  inquired  with  interest  what  this  new  religion 
might  be;  but  the  Speaker  could  only  describe  it  as  it 
existed,  and  then  but  vaguely.  He  could  not  give  the 
history  of  its  growth.  Jeremy  gathered  that  the 
Spiritualists  still  called  themselves  Christians,  but  de- 
pended much  less  on  the  ministrations  of  any  church 
than  on  advice  received  in  various  grotesque  ways 
from  departed  friends  and  relatives.  Their  creed 
seemed  to  have  degenerated  into  a  gloomy  and  super- 
stitious form  of  ancestor-worship.  They  had  absorbed 
also,  he  guessed,  some  of  the  tenets  of  what  had  been 
called  Christian  Science;  and  the  compound  had  pro- 
duced a  great  many  extravagant  manifestations.  The 
Spiritualists  owned  no  law  or  discipline  in  the  spiritual 
world,  but  acted  on  the  latest  intelligence  received  from 
the  dead.  Most  of  them  held  firmly  that  evil  was  a 
delusion,  a  doctrine  which  had  come  to  have  a  strange 
influence  on  conduct.  All  of  them  believed  without  a 
question  in  the  future  life;  and  the  absolute  quality 
of  their  belief,  the  Speaker  thought,  had  gradually 
changed  among  them  the  distaste  for  fighting  which  at 
one  time  possessed  the  whole  country.  It  would 
further,  he  thought,  make  them  formidable  soldiers. 
The  picture  he  drew  of  them,  still  living  in  the  decay 
of  an  industrial  system,  packed  close  amid  the  ruins 
of  the  old  towns  in  a  bleak  country,  dismayed  and  re- 
pelled Jeremy.     The  Speaker's  discourses  did  not  fail 


178      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

of  their  intended  effect.    The  listener  began  to  believe 
that  this  enemy  must  be  opposed  at  all  risks. 

"And  you,"  the  Speaker  said  earnestly,  as  Jeremy 
rested  for  a  moment  in  the  workshop,  "you  shall  have 
your  reward.  I  have  no  son  and  I  have  a  daughter." 
He  muttered  the  last  sentence  so  much  under  his 
breath  that  it  seemed  he  wished  Jeremy  not  so  much  to 
hear  it  as  to  overhear  it. 

Jeremy's  mind  had  been  elsewhere;  and  it  was  a 
minute  or  two  before  the  sense  of  these  words  pene- 
trated to  him.  When  it  did,  it  brought  him  sharply 
back  to  the  actual  world.  But  he  did  not  speak  at 
once.  His  natural  caution  interposed,  his  natural  dif- 
fidence bade  him  consider. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  he  asked  quietly  after 
an  interval. 

"What  I  say,"  the  Speaker  answered.  "H  you  suc- 
ceed in  what  you  have  to  do,  you  shall  be  rewarded. 
If  you  don't  succeed,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  reward  you, 
even  if  I  wish  to." 

Jeremy  desired  very  strongly  to  point  out  that  this 
was  unjust,  that  whether  the  guns  would  be  a  decisive 
factor  in  the  coming  battle  depended  almost  entirely 
on  chance.  But  he  refrained.  He  refrained,  too, 
from  asking  the  Speaker  precisely  where  the  Lady 
Eva  came  into  the  scheme.  Fortune  appeared  to  him 
like  a  great,  glittering  bubble,  which  a  miracle  might 
make  solid  at  the  proper  time  for  his  hand  to  seize  it. 
He  dared  not  question  further :  he  dared  not  think  how 
much  he  was  influenced  by  the  Speaker's  determination 
not  to  consider  the  consequences  of  defeat. 

And  as  that  crowded  week  wore  on,  his  mind  settled 
into  a  sort  of  calm,  like  the  apparent  quietness  of  a 
wheel  revolving  at  high  speed.    That  would  be  which 


MARCHING  OUT  179 

was  written.  In  his  anxiety  to  be  sure  that  there  was 
an  adequate  supply  of  shells  (he  did  not  hope  to  have 
more  than  thirty  for  each  gun)  he  quite  forgot  that 
one  of  them  might  suddenly  blow  him  into  eternity, 
together  with  all  the  Speaker's  chance  of  success, 

A  great  part  of  his  time  in  the  workshops  was  now 
spent  alone — alone,  that  is  to  say,  as  far  as  the  Speaker 
was  concerned,  for  the  old  man  was  busy  at  the 
Treasury,  mustering  his  army  and  making  ready  for  it 
to  march.  As  for  the  octogenarians,  Jeremy  felt  little 
more  kinship  with  them  than  if  they  had  been  a  troop 
of  trained  animals.  Communication  with  them  was 
so  difficult  that  he  confined  it  to  the  most  necessary 
orders.  But  when  he  realized  that  these  ludicrous  old 
men  would  have  to  come  with  him  to  the  battlefield  to 
fire  the  guns,  for  want  of  time  to  train  others,  he  began 
to  feel  for  them  a  kind  of  compassionate  affection. 
He  regarded  them  rather  as  he  would  have  done  the 
horses  of  the  gun-teams  than  as  the  men  of  his  battery ; 
but  towards  the  end  of  the  week  he  found  himself 
talking  to  them,  quite  incomprehensibly,  as  he  might 
have  done  to  horses.  It  seemed  to  him  pathetic  that 
these  witless  veterans  should  be  led  out  to  war  and 
set  to  the  highly  hazardous  venture  of  firing  off  the 
guns  they  had  themselves  manufactured. 

So,  between  the  hours  which  he  devoted  to  elemen- 
tary instruction  in  loading,  aiming,  and  firing,  he  gave 
to  them  his  views  on  the  situation  in  which  he  found 
himself.  His  views  were,  by  reason  of  fatigue,  strong 
emotions  and  bewilderment,  of  a  confused  and  even 
childish  sort.  He  told  Jabez,  the  wizened  expert  in 
explosives,  the  whole  story  of  Trehanoc's  dead  rat — 
a  story  which,  brief  as  it  was,  covered  more  than  a 
hundred  and  seventy  years.     He  confided  to  Jabez  his 


i8o      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

idesire,  his  impossible  craving,  to  see  the  rat  again.  It 
was  perhaps  a  Httle  ridiculous  to  hanker  so  much  after 
the  society  of  a  rather  unpleasant  animal.  Neverthe- 
less he  and  the  rat  were  in  the  same  boat,  and  in  his 
more  light-headed  moments  he  felt  that  he  ought  to 
seek  it  out  and  take  counsel  with  it.  He  was  sure  that 
the  rat  would  understand.  At  other  times  he  had  a 
suspicion  that  it  would  have  adjusted  itself  much  more 
easily  to  the  changed  world  than  he  could  ever  hope 
to  do.  Perhaps  it  had  not  even  noticed  that  there  had 
been  any  change.  Jabez,  wrinkled,  skinny  and  tooth- 
less, listened  complacently  while  he  went  on  fumbling 
with  his  work,  never  letting  a  sign  appear  to  show 
whether  he  did  or  did  not  understand  a  word  of  it. 
Jeremy  reflected  that  it  was  perhaps  better  to  be  quite 
incomprehensible  than  to  be  half  understood. 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
sixth  day,  he  decided  that  all  was  done  that  could  be 
hoped  for.  He  put  the  gun-crew  again  through  its 
drill,  and  desisted  for  fear  of  scaring  away  what  little 
sense  its  members  still  retained.  Then,  after  over- 
hauling the  guns  once  more,  he  returned  to  the  Treas- 
ury to  report  to  the  Speaker  that  he  was  ready. 

As  he  entered  the  building  he  met  the  Lady  Eva, 
who  had  just  come  in  from  riding.  His  mind  was  too 
dull  and  heavy  to  respond  even  to  the  sight  of  her 
vigorous,  flushed  beauty.  He  merely  saluted  her — he 
had  queerly  taken  in  the  last  few  days  to  using  again 
the  old  artillery  salute — and  would  have  gone  on.  But 
he  saw  her  hesitate  and  half  turn  towards  him;  and 
he  stopped  and  faced  her.  But  when  he  had  done  so, 
she  evidently  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  him.  She 
stood  there,  tapping  her  foot  on  the  ground  and  biting 


MARCHING  OUT  181 

her  lip,  while  he  waited,  bowed,  lethargic,  incapable 
of  speech. 

At  last  she  said,  with  a  jerky  effort:  "I  do  not 
know  how  my  father  is  expecting  you  to  save  us  .  .  . 
but  I  know  that  he  is.  ..." 

He  wondered  whether  this  was  the  attempt  of  a 
frivolous  girl  to  get  news  to  which  she  had  no  right. 
He  inclined  his  head  gravely  and  made  no  reply. 

She  went  on,  still  with  an  obvious  effort :  "I  know 
he  is  .  .  .  and  I  wanted  to  wish  you  success,  and 
that — that  no  accident  may  happen  to  you." 

"I  hope  for  all  our  sakes  that  there  will  be  no  ac- 
cident," he  answered  wearily,  "but  you  never  know." 
He  waited  a  few  moments ;  but  she  seemed  to  have 
nothing  more  to  say.  He  saluted  her  again  and  left 
her,  continuing  his  slow  way  to  the  Speaker's  room. 
He  did  not  see  that  she  stood  there  looking  after  him 
until  he  was  out  of  sight. 

"We're  all  ready,"  he  said  tersely,  as  he  entered. 

"Then  everything  is  ready,"  the  Speaker  replied 
from  his  desk,  where,  with  his  clerk  standing  by  his 
side,  he  was  signing  documents  with  great  flourishes  of 
a  quill.    "And  it's  only  just  in  time." 

"Only  just  in  time?" 

The  Speaker  dismissed  the  clerk  and  turned  to 
Jeremy.  "Only  just  in  time,"  he  repeated,  with  an 
expression  of  gravity.  "They  have  moved  much 
quicker  than  I  expected.  They  held  up  a  train  last 
week  as  soon  as  their  messengers  got  back,  and  they've 
been  bringing  up  troops  in  it  nearly  as  far  as  Hitchin. 
Luckily  it  broke  down  before  they  had  quite  finished, 
and  so  the  line  is  blocked.  But  the  advance-guard  I 
sent  out  met  some  of  their  patrols  just  outside  St.  Al- 
bans this  morning." 


i82      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

"Then  the  fighting  has  begun?"  Jeremy  asked,  with 
a  Httle  excitement. 

"Yes — begun."  The  Speaker's  face  was  dark  and 
sullen.  "A  hundred  of  our  men  were  driven  through 
the  town  by  a  score  or  so  of  theirs.  They  are  moving 
on  London  already,  but  now  they  are  coming  more 
slowly  than  they  have  been.  I  intend  to  set  out  to-night 
and  we  shall  meet  them  to-morrow  somewhere  on  the 
other  side  of  Barnet.  They  will  come  by  the  Great 
North  Road." 

Jeremy  was  silent,  and  the  Speaker  came  to  him  and 
took  his  arm.  "Yes,  Jeremy,"  he  said,  with  almost 
tenderness  in  his  voice,  "by  this  time  to-morrow  it 
ought  to  be  all  over." 

"But  if  they  beat  us,"  Jeremy  cried,  "they  will  be 
into  London  at  once.  Haven't  you  made  any  prepara- 
tions ?  Won't  3^ou  send  the  Lady  Burney  and  the  Lady 
Eva  somewhere  in  the  south  where  they  will  be  safe? 

I  met  the  Lady  Eva  just  now — she  is  still  here " 

He  stopped  and  gulped. 

"I  will  not,"  said  the  Speaker,  his  voice  deepening 
and  taking  on  the  resounding,  the  courageous,  the 
mournful  tones  of  a  trumpet.  "H  we  are  beaten,  then 
it  is  all  over,  and  there  is  no  need  for  us  to  look  be- 
yond defeat.  H  we  are  beaten,  I  do  not  care  what 
happens  to  me  or  to  you  or  to  any  one  that  belongs  to 
me.  For  our  civilization,  that  I  have  worked  so  long 
to  maintain,  would  be  dead,  it  would  be  too  late  to  save 
England  from  savagery,  and  it  would  be  better  for  all 
of  us  to  die.  Go  now  and  see  that  your  guns  are  ready 
to  move  in  three  hours.  The  horses  will  be  there  in 
time." 

Jeremy  hesitated,  reluctantly  impressed  by  the  old 


MARCHING  OUT  183 

man's  solemn  fervor.    Then,  without  a  word,  he  left 
the  room  and  returned  to  the  workshop. 


As  the  end  of  the  summer  day  faded  and  grew 
cooler,  the  Lady  Eva  sat  with  her  mother  and  their 
attendants  in  a  window  of  the  Treasury  overlooking 
Whitehall.  The  Lady  Burney,  who  had  long  aban- 
doned the  practice  of  reading,  was  yet  in  the  habit  of 
hearing  long  stories  and  romances  from  clever  persons 
who  got  them  out  of  books;  and  she  judged  from  what 
she  had  learnt  of  wars  in  the  old  times  that  it  would 
be  proper  to  her  position  to  sit  in  a  window  and  smile 
graciously  on  the  army  as  it  marched  out  to  battle.  It 
was  an  unfortunate  thing  that  the  Speaker,  ignorant 
of  her  intentions  and  careless  of  the  ritual  of  conflict, 
had  appointed  various  places  of  assembly  for  the 
troops,  and  had  taken  no  pains  to  make  any  part  of 
them  march  through  Whitehall.  Detached  bodies  went 
by  at  intervals ;  and  some  of  them,  who  chanced  to  look 
up,  saw  fluttering  handkerchiefs.  But  most  of  them 
marched  doggedly  and  dully  with  drooping  heads,  re- 
flecting in  their  courage  the  prevailing  spirit  of  gloomy 
anxiety  which  had  settled  on  London. 

Once  a  small  erect  figure  on  horseback  clattered  sud- 
denly out  of  the  Treasury  almost  immediately  under- 
neath, struggling  with  a  wildly  curvetting  mount.  The 
Lady  Burney  bowed  and  waved  to  it  graciously.  The 
girl  Mary  began  and  checked  a  sharp  sigh  of  admira- 
tion. The  Lady  Eva  sat  motionless  and  expression- 
less. But  Thomas  Wells,  impatient  annoyance  appar- 
ent in  the  line  of  his  back,  as  soon  as  he  had  mastered 
the  restive  horse,  trotted  off,  without  once  looking  up. 


i84      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

in  the  direction  of  Piccadilly,  where  he  was  to  join  the 
Speaker. 

The  light  grew  less  and  less,  the  sky  became  paler, 
with  a  curious  and  depressing  lividity,  as  though  the 
day  were  bleeding  to  death.  The  sound  of  marching 
troops,  never  very  great  or  very  frequent,  came  to  the 
listeners  in  the  window  less  often  and  less  loud.  A 
cloud  of  impalpable  sadness  fell  upon  the  city  and  af- 
fected the  Lady  Eva  like  a  spiritual  miasma.  The 
streets  were  not,  in  truth,  quieter  or  emptier  than  was 
usual  at  nightfall:  there  was  no  outward  sign  that  the 
people  guessed  at  an  approaching  calamity.  But  there 
rose  from  all  the  houses  a  soft,  deadening  air  of  gloom. 
It  was  as  though  London  had  the  heavy  limbs,  the 
racked  nerves,  the  difficult  breathing  of  acute  appre- 
hension. The  Lady  Eva  could  feel,  and  dumbly  shared, 
the  general  oppression.  She  wished  to  leave  the  win- 
dow, to  take  refuge  amid  lights  and  conversation  from 
the  creeping  chill.  But  her  mother,  obstinate  and 
sullen,  dully  incensed  by  the  failure  of  her  romantic 
purpose,  insisted  on  staying,  and  made  the  rest  stay 
with  her. 

Just  when  the  day  was  changing  from  a  pale  light 
shot  with  shadow  into  the  first  darkness  of  evening, 
they  heard  a  loud  clattering  in  Whitehall,  a  little  way 
out  of  sight ;  and  presently  a  long,  slow  procession  came 
by,  made  up  of  obscure,  grotesque  shapes,  hidden  or 
rendered  monstrous  by  the  doubtful  light.  First  there 
came  a  string  of  wagons,  each  drawn  by  two  or  four 
horses;  and  the  men  who  walked  beside  them  seemed 
to  walk,  or  rather  to  hobble,  with  ludicrous  awkward- 
ness, all  with  bent  backs  and  some  leaning  on  sticks. 
At  the  end  rolled  two  strange  wheeled  objects  heavily 
swathed  in  tarpaulins,  each  drawn  by  a  team  of  eight 


MARCHING  OUT  185 

horses.  The  women  in  the  window,  tired  of  regarding 
the  empty  street  for  so  long,  gazed  eagerly  at  these, 
but  could  not  make  out  or  give  them  a  name.  The 
Lady  Eva  alone  sat  back  in  her  chair,  hardly  looking, 
until  with  a  start  she  thought  she  saw  a  square,  familiar 
figure  riding  beside  the  train  on  a  horse  as  square  and 
sedate  as  itself.  Then  she  leant  impulsively  forward; 
but  already  Jeremy  and  his  guns  were  swallowed  up 
in  the  shades  as  they  jogged  along  towards  Charing 
Cross. 

"Another  baggage-train!"  observed  the  Lady 
Burney,  crossly  and  obesely,  as  she  turned  away  from 
the  window. 

Jeremy  had,  in  fact,  looked  up  at  the  windows  of  the 
Treasury  as  he  went  by,  and  with  a  romantic  thought 
in  his  head.  But  he,  as  little  aware  as  the  Speaker 
of  the  observances  proper  to  the  marching  out  of  the 
army,  had  not  expected  to  see  any  one  there,  and  con- 
sequently saw  no  one.  He  merely  reflected  that  the 
Lady  Eva  was  somewhere  behind  those  black  walls; 
and  he  strove  to  lift  away  his  depression  by  reminding 
himself  that  he  was  going  to  fight  for  her.  But  this 
exhortation  had  no  effect  on  his  anxious  mind.  The 
circumstances  did  not  in  the  slightest  degree  alter  an 
extremely  difficult  situation.  It  was  merely  one,  even 
if  the  chief,  of  the  factors  which  compelled  him  to  face 
that  situation,  however  unwillingly.  It  would  not  as- 
sist him  to  change  the  issue  of  a  good  old-fashioned 
infantry  battle  by  means  of  two  very  doubtful  sixty- 
pounder  guns. 

But  this  depression  occupied  only  one  part  of  his 
mind.  With  another  he  had  got  his  column  together 
at  Waterloo,  had  seen  to  the  effectual  disguising  of 


il86      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

the  guns,  had  marshalled  the  old  men  in  their  proper 
places  and  set  out  without  misadventure  or  delay.  The 
collapse  of  other  means  of  crossing  the  river  sent  them 
round  by  Westminster  Bridge,  which  shook  and 
rumbled  ominously  under  the  weight  of  the  guns,  and 
thence  along  Whitehall  in  the  direction  of  Charing 
Cross  Road.  Jeremy's  route  had  been  indicated  to  him 
by  the  Speaker  without  the  help  of  a  map;  but,  to  his 
surprise,  he  had  been  able  to  recognize  the  general  line 
of  it  by  means  of  the  names.  The  column  plodded 
slowly  along  a  vile  causeway  that  had  been  Tottenham 
Court  Road  into  another  as  vile  which  was  still  called 
Euston  Road,  and,  turning  sharp  to  the  right,  made  for 
the  long  hill  which  led  towards  Islington, 

The  mere  marching  through  that  shadowed  and 
cheerless  evening  was  depressing  to  Jeremy.  He  had 
chosen  for  his  own  use  the  fattest  and  least  exuberant 
nag  that  the  Speaker's  stables  could  ofifer  him ;  and  on 
this  beast  he  cantered  now  and  again  to  the  head  of 
the  column  and  back,  to  see  that  all  was  well  and  to 
urge  haste  on  the  leaders.  The  old  men  were  bearing 
it  well.  There  was  no  doubt  that  they  looked  forward 
with  a  gruesome  and  repulsive  glee  to  the  use  of  their 
handiwork  in  action.  As  he  rode  by,  Jeremy  could 
see  them  hobbling  cheerfully,  cackling  and  exchanging 
unintelligible  jokes  in  high,  cracked  voices.  The  gath- 
ering darkness  and  the  changing  shadows  made  them 
seem  even  more  ghostly  and  grotesnue.  Jeremy  shiv- 
ered. He  felt  as  though  he  were  leading  out  against 
the  living  an -army  of  the  dead.  But  he  mastered  his 
repulsion  and  cried  out  encouragement,  now  to  one, 
now  to  another,  bidding  them  when  they  were  tired 
to  take  it  in  turns  to  ride  on  the  wagons.  They  an- 
swered him  with  thin  cheers;  and  a  few  of  them, 


MARCHING  OUT  187 

marching  arm-in-arm  together,  like  old  cronies  re- 
leased for  an  airing  from  the  workhouse,  set  up  a  feeble 
but  cheerful  marching  song. 

As  they  topped  the  rise  of  the  hill,  the  moon  came 
up  and  revealed  the  uncanny  desolation  of  the  country 
through  which  they  were  moving.    Here  all  was  ruin, 
with  partial  clearings,  like  those  which  had  been  made 
m  St.  John's  Wood,  only  more  extensive.     The  wide 
road  had  not  been  mended,  yet  had  nowhere  fallen 
into  complete  disuse,  and  was  a  maze  of  criscrossing 
tracks  and  ruts,  studded  with  pits  which  had  here  and 
there  become  little  pools.    Jeremy  silently  but  fervently 
thanked  the  moon  for  rising  in  time  to  save  his  guns 
from  being  stuck  in  any  of  these  death-traps.     He 
rode  by  the  first  gun,  watching  the  road  anxiously; 
and  he  spent  an  agonized  five  minutes  when  one  of  the 
wagons  in  front  slipped  a  wheel  just  over  the  edge  of 
a  pit  and  blocked  up  the  only  practicable  way.    The  old 
men  gathered  around  at  once,  cheering  themselves  on 
with  piping  cries,  and  at  last  heaved  the  wagon  out 
The  column  went  slowly  on— all  too  slowly,  it  seemed 
to  Jeremy,  who  yet  dared  not  make  greater  haste. 

And  then,  in  spite  of  his  fears  and  his  whirling 
bram,  fatigue  sent  down  on  him  a  sort  of  numbing 
cloud.  He  drooped  and  nodded  in  the  saddle,  picking 
his  way  only  by  a  still,  vigilant  instinct.  Wild  fancies 
and  figures  hurled  themselves  through  his  weary  brain 
without  startling  him.  Once  he  seemed  to  see  the 
thin,  animal  face  of  the  Canadian,  teeth  bared  and  a 
little  open,  painted  on  the  darkness  only  a  few  inches 
from  his  eyes.  Once  as  he  lurched  heavily  it  seemed 
that  the  arms  of  the  Lady  Eva  caught  him  and  steadied 
him  and  held  him,  and  that  he  let  fall  his  head  on, 


i88      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

the  delicious  peace  of  her  breast.  He  woke  with  a 
start  to  see  that  the  road  forked  and  that  the  column 
was  taking  the  road  on  the  right.  The  moon  was  now 
high,  and  made  his  battery  and  the  road  and  the  few 
houses  that  were  still  standing  here  all  black  and  silver. 
On  his  right  stood  a  small  ale-house,  with  open  door, 
whence  came  the  pale  glow  of  a  dying  fire.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  he  must  see  to  it  that  none  of  his  old  men 
straggled  in  here  to  rest  or  hide;  and,  pulling  out  of  his 
place  in  the  column,  he  rode  towards  it.  As  he  did  so 
he  saw  the  sign  on  which  the  moonlight  fell  full  and 
read  with  strange  feelings  the  rudely-scrawled  words, 
"The  Archway  Tavern."  He  looked,  with  hanging  lip 
and  staring  eyes,  for  the  busy  swing-doors  of  the 
public-house  which  had  been  a  landmark  and  which  he 
had  passed  he  knew  not  how  many  times.  Though  he 
had  never  entered  it,  this  simulacrum,  this  dwindled 
vestige  on  the  place  where  of  old  it  had  stood,  opulent, 
solid  and  secure,  affected  him  like  a  memento  mori,  a 
grim  epitaph,  the  image  of  a  skull.  It  was  a  sudden 
and  poignant  reminder  of  the  transiency  of  human 
things  and  of  the  strange  nakedness  of  the  age  in  which 
he  now  lived.  When  he  turned  away  he  was  sitting 
limp  and  dazed  in  the  saddle. 

In  an  alternation  of  fits  of  such  drowsiness  and  of 
vigorous,  bustling  wakefulness,  Jeremy  got  his  column 
slowly  over  the  undulations  of  the  Great  North  Road. 
The  moon  at  last  went  down;  and  as  morning  ap- 
proached, the  sky  grew  cloudy  and  every  spark  of  light 
vanished  from  the  world.  Then,  at  the  moment  they 
entered  on  the  first  rise  of  what  Jeremy  supposed  to 
be  Barnet  Hill,  a  thin  breeze  began  to  blow  from  the 
i&ast  and  to  bring  with  it  a  faint  radiance.     Jeremy 


MARCHING  OUT  189 

felt  on  his  right  cheek  the  wind  and  the  light  at  once, 
light  like  wind  and  wind  like  light,  both  numbingly 
cold.  And,  as  they  came  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  the 
sun  rose  and  revealed  to  them  the  assembled  army. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  BATTLE 


TEREMY'S  orders  had  been  to  meet  the  Speaker 
*^  near  the  church  on  the  hill;  and  thither  he  rode, 
not  staying  to  look  about  him.  By  the  long,  cold 
shadow  of  the  church  tower  stood  a  little  knot  of  peo- 
ple whom  he  recognized  for  the  Speaker  and  his  staff. 
He  rode  up  to  them,  dismounted  stiffly,  and  saluted, 
as  the  old  man  came  forward  to  meet  him. 

"You  have  come,  then,"  said  the  Speaker,  in  his 
usual  thick  soft  voice,  laying  an  almost  affectionate 
hand  on  his  arm.     "And  are  the  guns  safe?" 

"Quite  safe,"  Jeremy  answered,  shivering  a  little 
and  stamping  his  feet  for  warmth. 

"I  knew  I  could  trust  you  to  bring  them,"  the 
Speaker  murmured.  "Come  over  here  and  they  shall 
give  you  a  warm  drink." 

Jeremy  went  with  him  to  the  little  knot  of  officers, 
who  were  standing  just  in  the  growing  sunlight,  and 
took  from  a  servant  a  great  mug  which  he  found  to  be 
full  of  inferior,  sickly-flavored  whisky  and  hot  water, 
highly  sweetened.  He  lifted  his  head  from  it,  cough- 
ing and  gasping  a  little,  but  immediately  found  that  he 
was  warmer  and  stronger. 

"All  the  army  is  assembled,"  the  Speaker  told  him. 
"We  continue  the  march  in  half-an-hour.    The  enemy 

190 


THE  BATTLE  191 

pushed  past  St.  Albans  last  night  and  they  are  camped 
between  here  and  there.  The  battle  will  be  two  or 
three  miles  north  of  this." 

Jeremy  was  now  sufficiently  revived  to  look  about 
him  with  interest.  Here,  as  almost  everywhere  in  the 
farthest  limits  of  London,  the  restorations  of  time  had 
been  complete.  The  little  town  had  returned  to  what 
it  was  before  the  nineteenth  century.  The  long  rows 
of  small  houses  had  gone,  like  a  healed  rash,  as  though 
they  had  never  been ;  and  on  all  sides  of  the  few  build- 
ings that  clustered  round  the  church  and  to  the  north 
of  it,  grazing  land  stretched  out  unbroken,  save  here 
and  there  by  rude  and  overgrown  walls  of  piled  bricks. 
On  this  narrow  platform,  which  fell  away  rapidly  on 
the  right  hand  and  on  the  left,  the  troops  were  biv- 
ouacking, huddled  in  little  clusters  around  miserable 
fires  or  dancing  about  to  keep  themselves  warm. 

Jeremy's  eye  ran  from  one  end  of  the  prospect  to 
the  other  and  back  again,  until  he  became  conscious 
that  somebody  was  standing  at  his  elbow  waiting  for 
him  to  turn.  He  turned  accordingly  and  found  the 
Canadian,  whose  customary  barbaric  fineness  of  dress 
seemed  to  have  been  enhanced  for  the  occasion  by  a 
huge  dull  red  tie  and  a  dull  red  handkerchief  pinned 
carelessly  in  a  bunch  on  the  brim  of  his  hat. 

"What  do  you  think  of  them?"  asked  Thomas 
Wells  in  his  hard,  incisive  tones,  indicating  the  shiv- 
ering soldiers  by  a  jerk  of  his  head. 

'Tve  not  seen  enough  of  them  to  think  anything," 
Jeremy  answered  defensively.  "I  dare  say  they're 
not  at  their  best  now." 

"Poor  stuff!"  snapped  the  Canadian,  between  teeth 
almost  closed.  "Poor  stuff  at  the  best.  I  could  eat 
them  all  with  half  of  one  of  our  regiments.    Yes  .  .  ." 


192      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

he  continued,  drawling  as  though  the  words  had  an 
almost  physical  savor  for  him,  "if  I  got  among  them 
with  two  or  three  hundred  of  my  own  chaps,  I  bet  we 
wouldn't  leave  a  live  man  anywhere  within  sight  in 
half-an-hour.  We'd  cut  all  their  throats.  It'd  be  like 
killing  sheep." 

Jeremy  shuddered  involuntarily  and  moved  a  step 
away.     "Where's  all  the  rest  of  the  army?"  he  asked. 

"The  rest?  There  isn't  any  rest.  You  can  see  all 
there  is  of  it." 

"But  surely   .    .   ."   Jeremy  began,  and  paused. 

The  Canadian  laughed  with  malicious  and  evil 
amusement.  "They're  not  great  at  fighting  here,"  he 
said.  "If  they'd  taken  only  those  that  wanted  to  come 
there'd  be  you  and  me  and  the  Speaker.  And  they 
w^ouldn't  take  people  from  the  fields — or  not  many  at 
all  events.  And  there's  nobody  come  from  Gloucester- 
shire or  the  West,  though  the  Speaker  sent  to  them 
twice.  The  farmers  over  there  are  waiting  to  see  what 
happens.  They  don't  want  to  quarrel  with  the  bosses 
that  buy  their  wool.  No,  it's  not  a  big  army — eight 
thousand  at  most.  And  yet,"  he  went  on  reflectively, 
"it's  more  than  I  had  when  I  tore  the  guts  out  of 
Boston.     I  tell  you,  we  got  into  that  city.    ..." 

"Yes,"  Jeremy  interrupted  him  ner\^ously,  not  de- 
siring in  the  least  to  know  what  happened  in  Boston, 
"but  how  many  have  the  northerners  got?" 

"Oh,  not  many  more,  by  all  accounts,"  the  Canadian 
answered  airily.  "Ten  or  twelve  thousand,  I  reckon. 
Oh,  yes,  we're  going  to  get  whipped  all  right,  but  I've 
got  a  good  horse,  and  I  expect  the  Chairman  will  want 
to  stand  well  with  my  dad.  Yes — I've  got  a  good 
horse,  a  lot  better  than  yours."    As  he  spoke  he  glanced^ 


THE  BATTLE  193 

at  Jeremy's  tubby  nag,  and  his  narrow  mouth  stretched 
again  in  the  same  smile  of  evil  amusement. 

Jeremy's  heart  sank.  But,  as  he  was  wondering 
whether  his  dismay  was  betrayed  by  his  face,  a  gentle 
bustle  rose  around  them. 

"We're  marching  off,"  cried  the  Speaker,  as  he 
strode  by  with  the  vigor  of  a  boy  of  twenty.  "Back 
to  your — to  your  charge,  Jeremy  Tuft." 

It  was  not  until  the  whole  army  was  well  on  the  road 
that  Jeremy  found  himself  sufficiently  unoccupied  to 
examine  it  carefully.  His  old  men  resumed  the  march, 
with,  if  anything,  a  little  too  much  enthusiasm.  They 
were  extravagantly  keen  to  show  the  twenty-first  cen- 
tury what  their  guns  could  do ;  but  in  their  anxiety  to 
take  their  place  on  the  battlefield  they  behaved,  as 
Jeremy  bitterly  though  unintelligibly  told  them,  like  a 
crowd  of  children  scrambling  outside  the  door  of  a 
Sunday-school  tea.  Even  Jabez,  whom  he  had  chosen 
to  act  as  a  sort  of  second-in-command,  danced  about 
from  wagon  to  wagon  and  gun  to  gun  like  the  infant 
he  was  just,  for  the  second  time,  becoming.  A  com- 
pany of  the  ordinary  soldiers,  who,  in  accordance  with 
plan,  had  been  attached  to  the  battery  so  that  they 
might  help  in  man-handling  the  guns,  watched  the 
excited  gyrations  of  the  old  men  in  solemn  silence. 
The  march  northwards  out  of  the  little  town  was  well 
begun  before  Jeremy  could  feel  sure  that  his  own  com- 
mand was  smoothly  and  safely  in  hand.  As  soon  as 
he  was  satisfied  he  left  it  and  rode  on  ahead  to  see 
what  he  could  make  of  the  army. 

He  had  had  little  enough  time  to  make  himself  fa- 
miliar with  the  new  methods  of  warfare.  He  had,  in 
his  rare,  idle  moments,  questioned  everybody  he  met 
who  seemed  hkely  to  be  able  to  tell  him;  but  he  found 


194      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

much  the  same  uncertainty  as  to  the  deadliness  of  mod- 
ern weapons  as  he  dimly  remembered  to  have  existed 
in  the  long  past  year  of  1914.  The  troops  with  whom 
he  was  riding  to  battle  were  armed,  and  had,  many  of 
them,  been  drilled;  but  what  would  be  the  effect  of 
their  arms  and  how  their  drill  would  answer  in  war- 
fare no  one  knew,  for  they  had  never  been  tried.  He 
formed  himself,  this  gray  and  early  morning,  a  most 
unfavorable  impression  of  them. 

Their  uniforms  were  shabby  and  shoddy,  uncouth, 
loosely-cut  garments,  varying  in  shape  and  color.  On 
their  feet  they  wore  rude  rawhide  shoes  or  sandals  and 
round  their  legs  long  strips  of  rag  were  shapelessly 
wrapped.  Their  bearing  was  execrable.  They  made 
only  the  emptiest  pretense  at  march  discipline,  they 
slouched  and  shuffled,  left  the  ranks  as  they  pleased, 
held  themselves  and  their  arms  anyhow.  The  officers 
were  for  the  most  part  young  men  of  good  family  who 
had  been  appointed  to  commands  only  during  the  past 
four  or  five  days.  A  few,  those  who  had  trained  the 
army  in  times  of  peace,  were  soldiers  of  fortune,  who 
had  been  drawn  by  the  Speaker's  lavish  offers  to  them 
from  the  wars  in  the  Polish  Marches  and  in  the  Bal- 
kans, from  every  place  where  a  living  could  be  earned 
by  the  slitting  of  throats.  They  were  old,  debauched, 
bloated  and  lazy,  low  cunning  peeping  out  from  their 
eyes  like  the  stigma  of  a  disease.  They  looked  much 
better  suited  to  any  kind  of  private  villainy  than  to  the 
winning  of  battles;  and  the  contingents  under  their 
command  had  an  appearance  of  hang-dog  shiftiness 
rather  than  the  sheepish  reluctance  of  the  rest. 

Not  much  more  than  half  the  army  was  provided 
with  rifles ;  and  these,  as  Jeremy  knew,  were  hardly  to 
be  described  as  weapons  of  precision.     The  rest  had  a 


THE  BATTLE  195 

sort  of  pikes;  or  some  had  cutlasses,  some  bayonets 
lashed  to  the  ends  of  poles.  The  rifles  reminded  Jeremy 
a  little  of  those  of  his  earlier  experience,  but  suffering 
from  the  thickening  and  clumsy  degeneration  of  ex- 
treme old  age.  They  had  no  magazines:  the  work- 
shops were  not  equal  to  the  production  of  a  magazine 
that  would  not  result  in  fatal  stoppages.  The  breech- 
loading  action  was  retained  and  was  frequently  ef- 
ficient, so  Jeremy  learnt,  for  as  many  as  twenty-five 
rounds.  After  that  it  was  liable  to  jam  altogether  and, 
at  the  best,  permitted  only  a  reduced  rate  of  fire.  The 
range  was  supposed  to  be  five  hundred  yards,  but  the 
best  and  most  careful  marksman  could  rarely  at  that 
distance  hit  a  target  the  size  of  a  man.  Jeremy  calcu- 
lated that  the  effective  range  was  not  more  than  two 
hundred  yards  at  the  outside;  and  he  thought  that 
very  little  damage  would  be  done  at  more  than  half 
that  distance.  As  he  rode  along  by  the  side  of  the 
marching  regiments,  he  observed  the  pikes  and  cut- 
lasses, and  the  sheathless  bayonets  which  hung  at  the 
belts  of  the  riflemen,  and  wondered  what  would  happen 
when  it  came  to  close  fighting.  Neither  the  carriage 
nor  the  expressions  of  the  men  inspired  him  with 
confidence.  Many  of  them,  especially  the  new  recruits, 
haled  in  at  the  last  moment  from  field  and  farm,  were 
healthy,  sturdy  fellows;  but,  unless  he  was  mightily 
mistaken,  an  abhorrence  of  fighting  was  in  their  blood. 
He  himself  had  only  a  blunderbuss  of  a  double-bar- 
reled pistol,  which  reminded  him  of  the  highwaymen 
stories  of  his  boyhood,  and  a  most  indifferent 
horse.  .  .  . 

He  reached  the  end  of  this  train  of  thought,  found 
it  disagreeable,  and  paused,  as  it  were,  on  the  edge  of 
an  abyss.    Then  he  drew  in  his  horse  against  the  road- 


196      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

side,  halted,  and  let  the  column  march  past  him.  At 
the  end  came  his  battery,  plodding  along  with  more 
enthusiasm  than  all  the  rest  of  the  army  put  together. 
Jabez,  perched  beside  the  driver  on  the  seat  of  the  first 
wagon,  hailed  his  reappearance  with  delight,  scrambled 
down  and  ran  to  him,  putting  one  hand  on  his  stirrup. 

"Well,  Jabez,"  said  Jeremy  kindly,  as  he  might  have 
addressed  an  affectionate  dog,  "and  how  do  you  think 
we  are  getting  along?"  As  he  spoke  he  tapped  his 
horse  lightly  and  began  to  move  on  again.  Jabez 
hopped  by  his  side,  ecstatically  proclaiming  in  cracked 
tones  that  he  expected  the  beautiful  guns  to  blow  the 
damned  Yorkshiremen  to  hell.  The  only  thing  that 
annoyed  him  was  this  great  press  of  useless  infantry 
in  front  of  them.  They  might  be  useful  enough,  he 
felt,  to  drag  the  guns  into  position  and  perhaps  to  re- 
move what  was  left  of  the  enemy  when  he  had  done 
with  them.  But  he  certainly  envisaged  the  coming  battle 
as  a  contest  between  the  army  of  the  north  on  the  one 
hand  and  two  doubtful  sixty-pounder  guns  on  the  other. 
Jeremy  listened  to  him  tolerantly,  as  if  in  a  dream. 
Faint  wreaths  of  mist  were  rising  up  from  the  fields 
all  around  them  and  scattering  into  the  sparkling  air. 
The  tramp  of  the  soldiers  sounded  heavy  and  sodden, 
a  presage  of  defeat. 

Far  ahead  Jeremy  could  see  the  column  steadily  but 
slowly  following  the  slight  curv^es  in  the  road.  Right 
at  the  van,  as  he  knew,  though  they  were  out  of  his 
sight,  were  the  Speaker  and  his  staff — Thomas  Wells, 
on  the  swift  horse  to  which  he  trusted,  close  at  the 
old  man's  right  hand.  Somewhere  just  behind  them 
was  Roger  Vaile,  who,  like  many  of  the  clerks  in  the 
Treasury,  had  chosen  to  be  a  trooper  in  the  cavalry 
and   had   obtained   admission   to  the   Speaker's  own 


THE  BATTLE  197 

guard.  Miles  away  in  the  rear  of  the  army  was  the 
Lady  Eva,  doubtless  asleep ;  and  around  her,  who  was 
now  to  him  the  one  significant  point  in  it,  London, 
asleep  or  waking,  awaited  the  issue  of  the  struggle. 
Jeremy  felt  terribly  alone.  This  was  very  different 
from  being  in  charge  of  two  guns  out  of  some  five 
hundred  or  so  bombarding  the  German  front  line  be- 
fore a  push.  An  unexpected  wave  of  lassitude  came 
over  him,  and,  defeat  seeming  certain,  he  wished  that 
he  could  be  done  with  it  all  at  once. 

As  he  sagged  miserably  in  the  saddle,  a  sudden 
check  ran  down  the  column,  followed  by  an  ever-in- 
creasing babel  of  whispered  conjectures.  The  men  be- 
haved as  infantry  suddenly  halted  on  the  march  always 
have  done.  They  were  divided  between  pleasure  at  the 
relief  and  a  suspicion  that  something  untoward  had 
happened  out  of  sight  in  front  of  them.  They  mur- 
mured to  one  another,  unceasingly  and  eloquently, 
that  their  leaders  were  born  fools  and  were  taking 
them  into  a  death-trap.  But  the  check  continued  and 
no  certain  orders  came  down ;  and  at  last  Jeremy  rode 
forward,  so  that  he  might  pass  a  slight  rise  in  the 
ground  and  see  what  had  happened.  When  he  did 
so  he  found  that  the  head  of  the  column  was  already 
slowly  deploying  on  both  sides  of  the  road. 

"We've  begun,"  he  murmured  sharply  to  himself, 
and  stayed  a  moment  hesitating.  Then,  as  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  not  yet  heard  a  single  shot,  he 
spurred  his  horse  on  to  make  further  enquiries.  He 
found  the  Speaker,  Thomas  Wells,  and  two  or  three 
others  just  leaving  the  road  by  a  farm-track  to  gain 
the  top  of  a  little  mound  close  by. 

The  old  man  greeted  him  with  a  boyish  wave  of  the 
hand.     "There  they  are !"  he  called  out,  while  Jeremy 


198      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

was  still  some  yards  away;  and,  following  the  sweep 
of  his  arm,  Jeremy  saw  on  the  forward  slope  of  a 
hill,  about  half-a-mile  off,  a  flurry  of  horsemen  plung- 
ing wildly  about  together.  It  looked  at  first  like  a 
rather  crowded  and  amateurish  game  of  polo;  but, 
while  he  watched,  he  saw  the  sun  sparkling  again  and 
again  on  something  in  the  crowded  mass.  Then  a 
body  fell  inertly  from  the  saddle  and  a  riderless  horse 
galloped  off  over  the  hill.  A  minute  later  a  few  riders 
extricated  themselves  and  smartly  followed  it. 

"There  they  are!"  said  the  Speaker  again,  this  time 
in  a  quieter  voice.  The  greater  body  of  horsemen  was 
now  cantering  back ;  and,  before  they  had  covered  half 
the  distance,  a  few  scattered  parties  of  infantry  began 
to  appear  on  the  low  crest  above.  Shots  were  fired 
here  and  there.  The  reports  came  over,  dull  and 
vague,  against  a  contrary  breeze. 

"I  must  go  back  to  my  guns,"  Jeremy  gasped  breath- 
lessly. "I  must  go  back."  He  turned  his  horse  and 
began  to  gallop  lumberingly  along  the  fields  beside  the 
road. 

"Goo-ood  luck  to  you!"  came  after  him  in  a  high- 
pitched  mocking  yell  from  the  Canadian. 

In  a  minute  he  had  reached  the  battery.  When  he 
pulled  up  there  he  had  to  spend  the  best  part  of  five 
minutes  calming  Jabez  and  his  men,  who  wished  to 
drag  the  guns  incontinently  into  the  next  field  and  let 
them  off  at  random  over  the  slope  before  them.  By 
liberal  cursing  he  subdued  the  enraged  ancients  and 
got  them  at  a  sedate  pace  past  the  infantry  immedi- 
ately in  front,  who  were  in  reserve  and  had  not  yet 
received  orders  to  proceed.  When  he  reached  the  top 
of  the  rise  again  he  found  that  the  whole  of  the  en- 
emy's line  had  come  into  sight.     It  stretched  out  on 


THE  BATTLE  199 

both  sides  of  the  road,  and  its  left  flank  seemed  to  be 
resting  on  a  wood.  It  had  ceased  in  its  advance;  and 
across  its  front  a  body  of  cavalry  was  riding  slow  and 
unmolested. 


The  sound  of  firing  broke  out  again  and  increased 
rapidly.  From  the  almost  hidden  line  of  the  Speaker's 
troops,  and  from  the  enemy  on  the  opposite  slope, 
black  puffs  of  smoke  arose,  looking  solid  and  sharply 
defined  in  the  clear  air.  They  drifted  away,  melting 
slowly  as  they  went.  Jeremy  suffered  a  spasm  of 
panic  and  haste.  The  struggle  was  beginning;  and  in 
a  minute  or  two  he  must  bring  his  guns  into  position 
and  fire  them.  He  dreaded  lest  the  battle  should  be 
suddenly  over  and  lost  before  he  could  let  off  a  single 
round,  lest  he  should  never  get  even  the  slender  chance, 
which  was  all  that  he  could  hope  for.  In  that  moment 
his  faculties  stopped  dead,  and  he  did  not  know  what 
to  do.  But,  as  rapidly,  the  seizure  passed,  and  he 
halted  the  battery  while  he  rode  out  into  the  field  on 
the  right  to  find  a  position  for  the  guns.  Presently 
he  came  upon  a  little  shallow  dip,  which  would,  in 
case  of  necessity,  give  cover  from  an  attack  by  rifle- 
men, while  leaving  to  the  guns  a  clear  field  of  fire. 
He  went  back  to  the  road  and  gave  his  orders. 

Jabez  and  his  companions  began  at  once  to  behave 
like  puppies  unchained.  They  turned  the  gun-teams 
and  urged  them  recklessly  off  the  road  with  complete 
disregard  of  the  ground  they  had  to  cover.  "Steady, 
Jabez,    steady!"    Jeremy    shouted.      "Look    out    for 

that "     But  before  he  could  finish,  the  first  gun 

had  negotiated  a  most  alarming  slope,  and  the  second 
was  hard  upon  it.     At  the  end  of  ten  minutes'  con- 


200      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

fused  sweating  and  bawling,  the  two  guns  were  stand- 
ing side  by  side,  twenty  yards  apart,  in  the  hollow 
he  had  chosen;  and  the  crews,  panting  loudly  with 
their  mouths  wide  open,  stood  there  also,  looking  at 
him  and  eagerly  expecting  the  order  to  load  and  fire. 

He  had  early  abandoned  all  hope  of  using  indirect 
fire  from  any  kind  of  shelter :  for  the  technical  equip- 
ment of  his  men  was  plainly  not  equal  to  it.  He  had 
therefore  been  obliged  to  decide  upon  the  use  of  open 
sights;  and  from  the  lip  of  this  hollow  he  could  see, 
he  imagined,  a  reasonably  large  area  of  the  battle- 
field. It  stretched,  so  far  as  he  could  make  out,  from 
the  woods  on  his  right,  which,  where  the  front  line 
ran,  were  closer  to  the  road  than  here,  to  a  vague  and 
indiscernible  point  that  lay  a  somewhat  greater  dis- 
tance on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  The  Speaker's 
men  were  some  three-quarters  of  a  mile  in  front  of 
him,  the  enemy  nearly  half  a  mile  beyond  that.  It 
appeared  to  Jeremy  that  the  exchange  of  shots  up  to 
now  had  been  no  more  than  a  symbolic  expression  of 
ill-will,  since  at  that  range  it  was  obviously  impossible 
for  the  antagonists  to  hit  one  another. 

A  feverish  and  exhaustive  search  during  the  week 
of  preparation  had  not  obtained  for  Jeremy  the  field- 
glasses  which  he  had  hoped  might  be  lying  in  some 
corner,  uninjured  and  forgotten;  but  it  had  at  last 
brought  forth  a  reasonably  good  pair  of  opera-glasses. 
With  these  at  his  eyes,  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  his 
hollow,  shifting  uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other, 
and  vainly  searched  the  landscape  for  a  target.  His 
only  chance,  he  told  himself,  was  to  catch  a  mass  of 
the  enemy  somewhere  in  the  open  and  to  scatter  them 
with  a  direct  hit.  If  he  could  do  this,  he  thought,  the 
moral  effect  might  be  to  dismay  them,  and  to  put  heart 


THE  BATTLE  201 

into  the  Speaker's  troops.  But  he  did  not  suppose  that 
he  could  rout  the  whole  army  of  the  north  with  fifty- 
rounds  of  a  very  feeble  and  uncertain  kind  of  high 
explosive,  which  was  all  the  ammunition  he  had  been 
able  to  get  together  for  the  two  guns.     "If  only  we 

had  shrapnel "  he  was  murmuring  to  himself ;  but 

then  Jabez's  attempt  at  a  time-fuse  had  been  altogether 
too  fantastic.  *'If  only  we  had  quick-firers  .  .  .  sev- 
enty-fives .  .  ."  But  things  were  as  they  were,  and 
he  must  make  the  best  of  them. 

But  still  no  target  presented  itself.  Neither  line 
seemed  to  move;  and,  in  fact,  any  considerable  move- 
ment must  have  been  instantly  visible  on  that  smooth, 
hardly  broken  stretch  of  pasture-land.  This  state  of 
immobility  continued  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  during 
which  Jeremy's  anxiety  increased,  relaxed,  and  in- 
creased again,  until  the  alternation  of  moods  became 
almost  unbearable.  Once,  quite  suddenly,  the  firing, 
which  had  grown  slacker,  broke  out  again  violently 
on  the  right.  It  began  with  an  attempt  at  volleys,  but 
after  a  moment  or  two  fell  into  irregularity  and  rag- 
gedness.  Jeremy,  scanning  the  ground  with  his  opera- 
glasses,  could  find  no  cause  for  it.  He  attributed  it 
to  panic  and  was  beginning  to  believe  that  the  formid- 
ableness  of  the  Yorkshire  army  had  been  much  over- 
rated. He  had  just  let  fall  the  glasses  when  he  was 
disturbed  by  a  touch  at  his  elbow.  He  turned  and  saw 
Jabez,  a  stooped,  shriveled  figure  that  looked  up  at 
him  with  shining  youthful  eyes  in  a  face  absurdly  old. 

"Aren't  we  going  to  let  them  off?"  pleaded  Jabez 
in  wistful  tones.  "Aren't  we  ever  going  to  let  them 
off?  Just  once — anywhere.  .  .  ."  He  swept  a  claw- 
like hand  round  the  horizon,  as  though  it  was  imma- 
terial to  him  where  the  shot  fell,  so  long  as  it  was 


202      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

discharged.      "It   would    frighten   those    fellers,"   he 
added  with  cunning. 

Jeremy  reluctantly  smiled.  "We  must  wait  till  we 
can  frighten  them  properly,"  he  answered,  "and  just 
at  present  I  can't  see  anything  to  fire  at." 

"We  sha'n't  ever  get  a  chance,"  wailed  Jabez;  and 
he  lolloped  mournfully  back  to  the  guns  so  as  to  be 
ready  for  the  first  order. 

Intense  quiet  descended  again  upon  the  battlefield. 
Both  sides  seemed  to  be  lying  down  in  their  lines,  each 
waiting  for  the  other  to  make  a  move.  Jeremy  uttered 
a  short,  involuntary  laugh.  This,  he  supposed,  was 
what  might  be  expected  from  a  people  so  incredibly 
tmused  to  warfare,  but  it  was  nevertheless  a  trifle 
ludicrous.  He  determined  to  ride  forward  again  and 
consult  with  the  Speaker. 

He  had  mounted  and  ridden  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  battery,  when  a  second  burst  of  firing  broke  out, 
this  time  apparently  upon  the  left.  The  road,  which 
ran  along  the  crest  of  a  slight  ridge,  would  give  him 
a  better  view,  and  thither  he  hastened.  When  he  gained 
it  he  saw  that  on  the  extreme  left  the  battle  had 
indeed  begun  and,  to  all  appearance,  disastrously.  A 
great  body  of  Yorkshiremen  was  advancing  in  close 
formation,  and  already  the  Speaker's  troops  were  giv- 
ing way,  some  throwing  down  their  weapons,  some 
firing  wildly  as  they  ran.  Jeremy  paused  rigid  for  a 
second.  It  was  as  though  what  he  saw  touched  only 
the  surface  of  the  brain  and  by  that  paralyzed  all 
power  of  thought.  Those  scufiiing,  running,  dark 
figures  over  there  were  fighting  and  being  killed.  They 
were  fighting  and  being  killed  in  the  great  contest 
between  civilization  and  barbarism  for  the  body  of 
England ;  and  barbarism,  it  seemed,  was  winning.    But 


THE  BATTLE  203 

there  was  nothing  impressive  in  their  convulsed  and 
ungainly  actions.  They  were  merely  dark  figures  run- 
ning about  and  scuffling  and  sometimes  falling,  Jer- 
emy knew  very  well  what  it  was  that  he  saw,  but  he 
did  not  realize  it.  It  did  not  seem  real  enough  to 
make  the  intimate  contact  between  perception  and 
thought  which  produces  a  deed.  Then  suddenly  his 
paralysis,  which  felt  to  him  as  though  it  had  lasted  a 
million  years,  was  dissolved,  and  before  he  knew  what 
he  was  doing  he  had  turned  and  was  galloping  back 
to  the  battery  at  a  speed  which  considerably  aston- 
ished his  horse. 

"Get  those  guns  out !"  he  yelled,  with  distorted  face 

and  starting  eyes.     "Get  those  guns "     His  voice 

cracked,  but  already  the  old  men  were  in  a  frenzy  of 
haste,  limbering  up  and  putting  in  the  teams.  In  a 
few  moments,  it  seemed,  they  were  all  scurrying  to- 
gether over  the  field,  Jabez  clinging  to  Jeremy's  stirrup, 
flung  grotesquely  up  and  down  by  the  horse's  lum- 
bering stride,  the  guns  tossed  wildly  to  and  fro  on  the 
uneven  ground.  They  breasted  the  slight  ridge  of  the 
road  hke  a  pack  of  hounds  taking  a  low  wall  and 
plunged  down  together  on  the  further  side,  men,  guns, 
horses,  wagons,  all  confused  in  a  flying  mass, 

"My  God!"  Jeremy  gasped  to  himself,  "Any  one 
would  think  we  were  horse-gunners.  I  wouldn't  have 
believed  that  it  could  be  done." 

His  own  reflection  sobered  him,  and,  lifting  himself 
in  the  saddle,  he  shouted  to  the  insane  mob  around 
him :  "Steady !  Steady !  Steady !"  The  pace  slackened 
a  little,  and  a  swift  glance  round  showed  him  that,  by 
some  miracle,  no  damage  had  been  done.  How  these 
heavy  guns  and  wagons,  even  with  their  double  teams 
of  horses,  had  been  driven  at  such  a  speed  over  ground 


204      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

so  broken  and  over  the  bank  of  the  road  was,  he  sup- 
posed, something  he  would  never  be  able  to  explain; 
and  this  was  least  of  all  the  moment  for  troubHng 
about  it.  But  the  divine  madness,  which  must  have 
inspired  men  and  animals  alike,  had  now  evaporated, 
and  it  was  time  to  think  what  he  must  do.  In  another 
hundred  yards  he  had  made  his  way  to  the  front  of 
the  battery  and  had  halted  it  by  an  uplifted  hand. 
Then  first  he  was  able  to  see  how  the  situation  had 
developed. 

It  had  gone  even  worse  than  he  had  feared,  and  he 
had  halted  only  just  in  time.  So  far  as  he  could  make 
out,  the  whole  of  the  Speaker's  left  flank  had  been 
driven  back  in  confusion  and  was  fighting,  such  of  it* 
as  yet  stood,  in  little  groups.  Some  of  these  were  not 
more  than  three  or  four  hundred  yards  in  front  of 
him.  Complete  ruin  had  failed  to  follow  only  be- 
cause the  Yorkshire  troops  had  attacked  in  small  force 
and  were  for  the  moment  exhausted.  But  over  where 
their  first  line  had  been  he  could  see  new  bodies  ap- 
proaching to  the  attack.  When  he  looked  round  for 
help  he  found  that  the  Speaker's  army  was  engaged 
all  along  its  length  and  that  only  a  meager  company 
of  reserves  was  coming  up,  slowly  and  from  a  great 
distance. 

His  decision  was  rapidly  made.  Now,  if  ever,  he 
had  his  chance  of  using  his  gims  to  demoralize  the 
enemy,  and  if  he  could  thus  break  up  the  attack,  the 
position  might  yet  be  restored.  It  was  true  that  here 
in  the  open  he  ran  a  mighty  risk  of  losing  the  guns. 
The  remnants  of  the  enemy's  wave  were  not  far  off; 
and  hardly  anything  in  the  way  of  defenders  lay  be- 
tween him  and  them.  But  this  only  spurred  him  to 
take  a  further  risk.    He  led  the  battery  forward  again 


THE  BATTLE  205 

to  a  convenient  hollow,  a  few  yards  behind  one  of  the 
still  resisting  groups,  which  was  lodged  in  a  little 
patch  of  gorse.  And,  just  as  the  battery  came  up,  a 
party  of  the  enemy  made  a  rush,  driving  the  Speaker's 
men  back  among  the  horses  and  wagons.  There  was 
a  whirlwind  moment,  in  which  Jeremy  was  nearly 
thrown  from  his  plunging  horse.  He  had  no  weapon, 
but  struck  furiously  with  his  fist  into  a  face  which  was 
thrust  up  for  a  second  by  his  bridle.  Around  him 
everything  was  in  commotion,  men  shouting  in  deep 
or  piping  voices,  arms  whirling,  steel  flashing.  And 
then  miraculously  all  was  quiet  again  and  he  calmed 
his  horse.  A  few  bodies  lay  here  and  there,  some  in 
brown,  some  in  uniforms  of  an  unfamiliar  dark  blue. 
They  were  Hke  the  line  of  foam  deposited  by  the  re- 
ceding wave.  Not  far  away,  Jabez,  surprised  and  be- 
wildered, but  unhurt,  lay  on  his  back,  where  he  had 
been  pushed  over,  waving  his  arms  and  legs  in  the 
air.  Another  of  the  old  men  had  collapsed  across  the 
barrel  of  one  of  the  guns  and  blood  was  spouting  from 
his  side.  Beyond  the  battery  a  few  of  the  infantrymen 
were  standing,  wild-eyed  and  panting,  in  attitudes  of 
flight,  unable  to  believe  that  their  opponents  had  been 
destroyed.  Further  off  still  the  company  which  had 
been  attached  to  the  guns,  and  which  they  had  left 
behind  in  their  wild  rush,  was  coming  up  and  had 
halted  irresolutely  to  see  what  turn  events  would  take. 

Jeremy  recovered  his  self-possession,  and,  with  the 
help  of  the  shaken  but  indomitable  Jabez,  got  the  guns 
into  place  and  gave  the  order  to  load.  Then  himself 
he  trained  the  first  gun  on  a  body  of  Yorkshire  troops 
which  was  advancing  in  column  over  half  a  mile  away. 
There  followed  a  tense  moment. 

"Fire!"     He  cried  the  word  in  a  trembling  voice. 


2o6      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

Jabez,  with  an  air  of  ineffable  pride,  pulled  the  lanyard 
and  all  the  old  men  at  once  leapt  absurdly  at  the  re- 
port. Over,  far  over!  And  yet  the  shell  had  at  least 
burst,  and  through  his  glasses  he  could  see  the  enemy 
v^aver  and  halt,  obviously  astonished  by  the  new  weap- 
on. He  ran  to  the  other  gun,  trained  it,  and  again 
gave  the  order  to  fire.  It  was  short  this  time,  and  the 
smoke  and  dust  of  the  explosion  hid  the  mark.  But 
when  the  air  was  clear  again,  Jeremy  saw  that  the 
column  had  broken  and  was  dispersing  in  all  directions. 
Apparently  the  flying  fragments  of  the  shell  had  swept 
its  leading  ranks.  The  old  men  raised  a  quavering 
cheer,  and  Jabez,  leaping  with  senile  agility  to  an  in- 
secure perch  on  the  gun-carriage,  flourished  his  hat 
madly  in  the  air. 

Jeremy's  first  feeling  was  one  of  relief  that  neither 
of  the  guns  had  blown  up.  He  examined  them  care- 
fully and  was  satisfied.  When  he  resumed  his  survey 
of  the  field  there  was  no  target  in  sight.  But  the 
firing  on  the  right  vs^as  growing  louder  and,  he  thought, 
nearer.  It  was  not  possible  to  drag  these  guns  from 
point  to  point  to  strengthen  any  part  of  the  line  that 
might  happen  to  be  in  danger;  and  his  despair  over- 
whelmingly returned.  He  swept  the  ground  before 
him  in  the  faint  hope  of  finding  another  column  in  the 
open.  As  he  did  so  he  suddenly  became  aware  that 
he  could  just  see  round  the  left  of  the  ridge  on  which 
the  northern  army  had  established  itself;  and,  search- 
ing this  tract,  he  observed  something  about  a  mile 
away,  under  the  shade  of  a  long  plantation,  that  seemed 
significant.  He  lowered  his  glasses,  wiped  the  lenses 
carefully,  and  looked  again.  He  had  not  been  mis- 
itaken.    There,  within  easy  range,  lay  a  great  park  of 


THE  BATTLE  207 

wagons,  which  was  perhaps  the  whole  of  the  enemy's 
transport. 

Now,  if  it  were  possible,  he  exultantly  reflected,  for- 
tune offered  him  a  chance  of  working  the  miracle 
which  the  Speaker  had  demanded  of  him.  He  beck- 
oned Jabez  to  his  side,  pointed  out  the  mark  and  ex- 
plained his  intention.  The  ancient  executed  a  brief, 
brisk  caper  of  delighted  comprehension,  and  together 
they  aimed  the  two  guns  very  carefully,  making  such 
allowances  as  were  suggested  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  by  the  results  of  the  first  shots.  They  were  just 
ready  when  the  noise  of  battle  again  clamorously  in- 
creased on  the  right  and  urged  them  forward. 

"It's  now  or  never,  Jabez,"  muttered  Jeremy,  feeling 
an  unusual  constriction  of  the  throat  that  hindered  his 
words.  But  Jabez  only  replied  with  an  alert  and 
bird-like  nod  of  confidence. 

"Fire!"  Jeremy  cried  in  a  strangled  voice.  The 
lanyards  were  jerked,  and  Jeremy,  his  glasses  fixed  on 
the  target,  saw  two  great  clouds  spring  up  to  heaven 
not  far  apart.  Were  they  short?  But  when  the 
smoke  drifted  away,  he  saw  that  they  had  not  been 
short.  Feverishly  he  made  a  slight  adjustment  in 
the  aim,  and  the  guns  were  fired  again.  Now  one  burst 
showed  well  in  the  middle  of  the  enemy's  wagons, 
but  the  second  did  not  explode.  Jeremy  was  trembling 
in  every  muscle  when  he  gave  the  order  to  load  and 
fire  for  the  third  time.  Was  it  that  he  only  imagined 
a  slackening,  as  if  caused  by  hesitation,  in  the  noise 
of  the  attack  on  the  right?  He  could  hardly  endure 
the  waiting;  but  when  the  third  round  burst  he  could 
hardly  endure  his  joy.  For  immediately  there  leapt 
into  the  air  from  the  parked  wagons  an  enormous  col- 
umn of  vapor  that  seemed  to  overshadow  the  entire 


2o8      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

battlefield,  and  hard  after  this  vision  came  a  deafening 
and  reverberating  explosion,  which  shook  the  ground 
where  he  stood. 

"Got  their  ammunition!"  he  screamed,  the  tears 
pouring  down  his  face.  "There  must  have  been  a  lot !" 
He  reached  out  blindly  for  Jabez ;  and  the  old  men  of 
the  battery  observed  their  commander  and  his  lieuten- 
ant clasping  one  another  by  the  hands  and  leaping 
madly  round  and  round  in  an  improvised  and  frenzied 
dance  of  jubilation. 

When  the  echoes  of  that  devastating  report  died 
away,  complete  silence  stole  over  the  battlefield,  as 
though  heaven  by  a  thundered  reproof  had  hushed  the 
shrill  quarrels  of  mankind.  It  was  broken  by  a  thin 
cheering,  which  grew  louder  and  increased  in  volume 
till  the  sky  rang  with  it ;  and  Jerem)-,  rushing  forward 
to  see,  realized  that  everywhere  within  sight  the 
Speaker's  men  had  taken  heart  and  were  falling  boldly 
on  their  panic-stricken  enemies. 


CHAPTER  XI 

TRIUMPH 


THE  brief  remainder  of  the  battle  was  for  Jeremy 
a  confused  and  violent  phantasmagoria.  Imme- 
diately on  the  heels  of  that  triumphant  shout  he  or- 
dered the  guns  to  be  brought  forward  again  and  had 
the  luck  to  plump  a  single  shell  into  a  body  of  the 
enemies'  reserves  before  they  finally  melted  out  of  ex- 
istence. After  that  he  could  not  find  another  mark 
to  fire  at.  The  northern  army,  struck  down  in  the 
moment  of  victory  by  an  overwhelming  panic,  crum- 
bled all  along  its  line  and  broke  up  into  flying  knots 
of  terrified  men,  who  were  surrounded  and  harried  by 
the  jubilant  and  suddenly  blood-thirsty  troops  of  the 
Speaker.  When  he  perceived  this,  Jeremy  was  over- 
come by  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  head. 

"We've  done  it!  We've  done  it!"  he  muttered  in  a 
dazed  way.  And  then  this  stupefaction  was  replaced 
by  a  wild  and  reckless  delight.  "Come  on,  Jabez!"  he 
yelled,  pounding  with  his  heels  the  long-suffering 
horse.  "Come  on!  We've  got  to  see  this!"  Again 
they  were  off  together,  this  time  leaving  the  guns  be- 
hind. Jabez,  exalted  to  an  activity  wholly  unsuited  to 
his  years,  flung  up  and  down  at  the  stirrup,  while 
Jeremy  waved  his  whip  in  the  air  and  shouted  in- 
coherently.    Before  they  knew  it  they  had  shot  into 

209 


210      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

the  rearmost  of  the  scattered  fighting,  and  had  ridden 
down  an  escaping  Yorkshireman.  Jeremy  saw  for  a 
moment  at  his  bridle  the  backward-turned,  terror-dis- 
torted face  and  slashed  at  it  fiercely  with  his  whip. 
The  man  fell  and  lay  still ;  and  Jabez  with  a  convulsive 
leap  passed  over  the  body.  Out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eyes  Jeremy  half  saw,  only  half  realizing  it,  that  one 
of  the  Speaker's  men  was  jabbing  with  his  bayonet 
at  a  wriggling  mass  on  the  ground  beside  him.  Then 
they  were  through  that  skirmish,  and  for  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  in  front  of  them  the  field  was  empty. 
But  the  gentle  slope  beyond  was  covered  with  small 
figures,  running,  dodging,  stopping  and  striking  with 
the  furious  and  aimless  vitality  of  the  ants  in  a  dis- 
turbed nest.  Jeremy  and  Jabez  had  hastened  into  the 
midst  of  them  before  Jeremy  was  overtaken  by  a  be- 
lated coolness  of  the  reason.  When  the  sobering 
moment  came,  he  wished  he  had  had  the  sense  to  keep 
out  of  this  confused  and  murderous  struggle,  and  at 
the  same  time  he  remembered  that  his  only  w^eapon 
was  a  pistol  still  strapped  in  its  clumsy  holster.  He 
reached  for  it  and  began  to  fumble  with  the  straps; 
but  while  he  fumbled  a  desperate  Yorkshireman,  turn- 
ing like  a  rat,  pushed  a  rifle  into  his  face  and  pulled 
the  trigger.  It  was  not  loaded.  Jeremy,  trying  to 
understand  that  he  was  still  alive,  saw  in  an  arrested 
instant  like  an  eternity  the  man's  jaw  drop  and  his 
eyes  grow  rounder  and  rounder,  till  suddenly  the  star- 
ing face  vanished  altogether.  Jabez,  shaken  tO'  his 
knees  by  the  man's  onset,  had  grasped  an  abandoned 
pike  and  had  stabbed  upward. 

Jeremy  reined  in  and  quieted  the  almost  frantic 
horse.  A  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  his  face,  and  he 
felt  a  little  sick.    He  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  sleeve 


TRIUMPH  211 

and  looked  faintly  from  the  dead  Yorkshireman  to 
Jabez,  who  stood  with  the  bloody  pike  in  his  hand, 
an  expression  of  complacent  excitement  wrinkling  the 
skin  round  his  eyes.  The  fighting  had  already  passed 
beyond  them;  and  Jeremy  without  moving  let  it  roll 
away  noisily  over  the  crest  of  the  hill.  He  made  no 
sign  even  when  Jabez  shouldered  his  weapon  with  a 
determined  air  and  began  to  trudge  off  defiantly  in  its 
wake.  But  when  the  queer  lolloping  figure  had  already 
begun  to  grow  smaller,  Jeremy  put  his  hands  to  his 
mouth  and  shouted : 

"Jabez!  Jabez!  Come  back!"  Jabez  turned,  shook 
his  head,  waved  the  pike  with  warlike  ferocity,  and 
shouted  something  in  reply  that  came  faintly,  indis- 
tinguishably  against  the  breeze.  Then  he  resumed 
his  march,  leaving  his  commanding  officer  alone. 

It  was  over  half-an-hou-r  later  that  Jeremy  found 
the  Speaker.  By  that  time  the  fighting  was  all  over, 
and  the  fields,  hardly  changed  in  appearance  by  being 
dotted  with  a  number  of  corpses,  so  soon  to  be  re- 
solved into  the  same  substance  as  their  own,  were 
quiet  again.  In  the  course  of  his  search,  Jeremy  en- 
countered much  that  he  would  rather  not  have  seen. 
He  saw  too  many  men  lying  face  downwards  with 
wounds  in  their  backs,  too  many  with  tied  hands  and 
cut  throats.  He  realized  that  a  battlefield  can  too 
literally  resemble  a  slaughter-house;  and  these  evi- 
dences of  the  ferocity  of  an  unwarlike  race  appalled 
him.  And  he  even  found  one  of  the  mercenary  of- 
ficers, of  the  sort  that  he  had  observed  earlier  in  the 
day  and  had  disliked,  in  the  act  of  dispatching  a  pris- 
oner, preparatory  to  going  through  his  pockets.  He 
advanced  angrily  on  the  man,  who  did  not  know  him 
and  turned  with  a  curse  from  his  just  accomplished 


212      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

work  to  suggest  that  Jeremy's  throat  would  prove 
equally  vulnerable.  Held  off  by  Jeremy's  pistol,  he 
strolled  away  with  insolent  unconcern.  Jeremy  con- 
tinued his  way  and  at  last  discovered  the  Speaker, 
a  couple  of  miles  beyond  the  line  on  which  the  battle 
had  been  decided.  As  he  came  up,  he  could  see  that 
the  old  man's  dress  was  disheveled,  and  that  his 
horse  was  lathered  and  weary,  presumably  from  taking 
part  in  the  pursuit. 

By  this  time  he  was  faint  and  exhausted,  and  he 
did  not  announce  himself  in  the  confident  manner  that 
might  have  been  permitted  him.  He  rode  up  slowly 
to  the  crossroads,  where  the  Speaker  and  Thomas 
Wells  were  standing  under  a  sign-post,  and  dis- 
mounted. They  were  deep  in  a  conversation  and  at 
first  did  not  see  him.  The  Speaker's  thick  voice  came 
in  rapid  jerky  bursts.  His  reins  were  lying  on  the 
horse's  neck,  and  he  gesticulated  violently  with  his 
hands.  The  Canadian,  whose  eyes  seemed  to  Jeremy 
to  burn  with  a  fiercer  red  than  ever,  spoke  more  slowly, 
but  there  was  a  kind  of  intense  richness  and  gusto  in 
his  tone.  Jeremy  felt  too  inert  to  make  any  sound 
to  attract  their  attention ;  but  as  he  came  nearer 
Thomas  Wells  touched  the  Speaker's  arm  and  pro- 
nounced deeply: 

"There's  your  hero!" 

The  Speaker  dismounted  and,  running  without  con- 
sideration of  dignity  to  Jeremy,  clasped  the  astonished 
young  man  in  his  arms. 

"You  have  done  it!  You  have  done  it!"  he  cried 
again  and  again.  "There  is  nothing  left  of  them!'* 
Then,  when  his  transports  had  abated  a  little,  he  went 
on  more  calmly.     "We  have  smashed  them  to  pieces. 


TRIUMPH  213 

The  rebel  army  has  ceased  to  exist,  and  the  Chairman 
has  been  killed." 

"Killed?"  cried  Jeremy,  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  killed,"  the  Canadian  interjected,  still  in  the 
saddle  and  leaning  down  a  little  to  them.  "There's 
no  doubt  that  he's  dead,     I  killed  him  myself." 

"But  was  that  wise "  Jeremy  began.    "Wouldn't 

it  have  been  better  to  keep  him  ?  It  would  have  given 
us  a  hold  over  his  people." 

"That's  what  he  said,"  the  Canadian  answered  drily. 
"He  seemed  quite  anxious  about  it.  But  I  always 
go  on  the  principle  that  you  can't  be  sure  what  any 
man  is  going  to  do  unless  he's  dead.  Then  you  know 
where  he  is." 

"Yes,  he's  dead,  he's  dead,"  the  Speaker  broke  in,  in 
a  rising  voice.  "The  scoundrel  has  got  what  he  asked 
for.  He'll  never  lift  his  hand  against  me  or  my  people 
again!"  Jeremy,  dismayed  and  sickened,  saw  in  the 
old  man's  posture  something  of  the  inspiration,  of  the 
inhuman  rage,  of  a  Hebrew  prophet.  He  dared  not 
look  at  Thomas  Wells,  from  whose  grinning  mouth, 
he  fancied,  as  from  that  of  a  successful  ferret,  drops 
of  blood  must  still  be  trickling. 

"But  it  was  you  that  gave  him  into  our  hands,  Jer- 
emy," the  Speaker  resumed,  in  a  softer  and  caressing 
voice.  "You  did  for  him-^you  killed  him.  All  the 
thanks  is  yours,  and  I  shall  not  be  ungrateful !" 

The  Canadian  laughed,  low  and  ironical.  Jeremy's 
stomach  for  a  moment  revolted  and  a  thick  mist  of 
horror  swam  before  his  eyes. 

"Listen!    Listen  to  the  bells!" 

Jeremy  roused  himself,  cocked  his  head  and  listened. 
He  was  riding  slowly  beside  the  Speaker  down  the 
long  undulations  of  the  Great  North  Road  that  led 


214      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

them  back  to  London.  Sure  enough,  far  and  faint 
but  insistent,  that  sweet  metalHc  music  reached  his 
ears,  a  phantom  of  sound  that  stood  for  a  reaHty. 
London  was  already  rejoicing  over  its  deHverance. 
A  thin  haze  covered  the  city ;  and  out  of  it  there  rose 
continuously  the  ringing  of  the  bells. 

"I  sent  messengers  in  front  of  us,"  the  Speaker  went 
on,  with  great  content.  "They  will  be  ready  to  greet 
us — to  greet  you,  I  ought  to  say.  This  has  been  your 
battle."  , 

Jeremy  bestirred  himself  again.  An  urgent  hon- 
esty drove  him  to  do  what  he  could  to  make  the  truth 
plain.  It  was  pleasant,  and  yet  intolerable,  that  he 
should  be  saddled  with  a  victory  that  he  had  won 
only  because  he  had  been  the  instrument  of  fortune. 
He  reasoned  earnestly  with  the  old  man.  He  pointed 
out  to  him  what  a  piece  of  luck  it  had  been  that  the 
Yorkshiremen  were  fools  enough  to  leave  their 
transport  exposed.  He  insisted  that  it  w^as  a  mere 
chance  that  the  destruction  of  their  ammunition  had 
thrown  them  into  so  disastrous  a  panic.  When  at 
last  he  was  silent,  the  Speaker  resumed,  unmoved : 

"It  was  your  battle,  Jeremy  Tuft.  You  settled 
them.     I  was  right  to  rely  on  you." 

The  Canadian,  who  was  riding  on  the  Speaker's  left 
hand  and  had  not  yet  uttered  a  word,  breathed  again 
upon  the  air  a  shadow  of  ironical  laughter,  which  Jer- 
emy felt  rather  than  heard,  and  which  the  old  man 
disregarded. 

"They  will  come  out  to  meet  us,"  the  Speaker  mur- 
mured in  a  rapturous  dream,  "and  you  shall  be  toasted 
at  our  banquet.  Ah,  this  is  a  great  day,  a  wonderful 
day!  England  is  restored.  Happiness  and  greatness 
lie  before  us.     I  shall  be  remembered  in  history  with 


TRIUMPH  2151 

the  good  Queen  Victoria."  He  turned  a  little  in  the 
saddle  and  looked  keenly  at  Jeremy,  "Do  you  not  ask 
what  lies  before  you?" 

Jeremy,  staring  straight  in  front  of  him,  knew  that 
he  was  reddening  and  swore  inwardly.  He  wanted  to 
be  left  alone. 

"I'm  glad  you're  pleased,"  he  muttered,  awkwardly 
and  absurdly;  and  he  began  to  calculate  how  far  they 
were  now  from  Whitehall  and  how  much  longer  the 
journey  would  take.  He  supposed  that  he  would  be 
overwhelmed  with  undeserved  congratulations  at  the 
end  of  it;  but  he  reckoned  that  under  them  it  would 
be  his  part  to  be  dumb  and  that  no  disconcerting  ques- 
tions would  be  asked  of  him.  The  Speaker  was  too 
happy  to  do  more  than  smile  at  the  young  man's  mood- 
iness. As  they  rode  along  he  continued  his  murmur- 
ings,  which  rose  now  and  then  into  loud-voiced 
rhapsody. 

In  the  daylight  Jeremy  vaguely  recognized  the  coun- 
try through  which  he  had  passed,  in  darkness,  on  the 
previous  night,  for  the  first  time  for  many  generations. 
At  the  Archway  Tavern,  which  looked  even  ruder  and 
more  squalid  under  the  sun  than  under  the  moon,  the 
innkeeper  and  his  family  threw  flowers  at  them  and 
shouted  uncouth  blessings.  But  as  they  passed  through 
Holloway  and  Islington,  deserted  and  ruined  districts, 
only  a  few  squatters  appeared  to  watch  the  conquerors 
march  by.  These  hardly  human  beings  displayed  no 
emotion  save  a  faint  curiosity.  They  stood  by  the 
roadside,  singly  or  in  little  groups,  here  and  there, 
and  gazed  on  the  triumphant  cavalcade  with  enigmatic 
faces.  They  reminded  Jeremy  of  horses  which  he 
had  seen  gathering  at  a  gate  by  the  railway-line  to 
watch  a  train  go  past.    Their  thoughts,  their  expecta- 


2i6      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

tions,  their  hopes  and  fears,  were  as  much  hidden  from 
him  as  were  the  minds  of  animals.  And,  as  he  looked 
at  them,  he  experienced  a  singular  pang.  What  to 
these  creatures  was  all  human  history?  What  did  it 
matter  to  them  whence  he  had  come,  what  he  had 
done,  what  his  future  fortunes  might  be  ?  Their  sort, 
oppressed  and  tortured,  had  risen  and  had  smashed 
in  pieces  the  vast  machine  that  tortured  them,  destroy- 
ing by  that  act  all  that  made  life  gracious  and  pleasant; 
and  accomplished  for  their  masters.  It  mattered  so 
little  to  them  what  their  own  ancestors  had  done :  it 
could  not  much  matter  what  had  been  or  would  be  the 
deeds  of  Jeremy  Tuft,  what  edifice  the  old  Jew  would 
erect  on  the  foundation  laid  by  the  victory.  They  gaped 
a  little  as  they  stared.  Their  attention  was  fleeting: 
they  turned  away  and  spoke  and  laughed  among  them- 
selves. Jeremy  felt  in  a  piercing  instant  the  nullity 
of  human  striving;  and  his  blood  was  chilled. 

When  they  reached  the  cross-roads  at  the  Angel, 
they  went  through  a  more  elaborate  repetition  of  the 
ceremony  at  the  Archway  Tavern.  A  deputation  of 
good  villagers  brought  out  hastily  twined  wreaths  to 
them,  waved  cloths  in  the  air  and  shouted  loyally;  and 
the  Speaker,  bowing  his  thanks  and  his  gratification, 
urgently  commanded  Jeremy  to  do  the  same.  So  it 
went  all  the  way,  save  that  the  demonstrations  grew 
increasingly  elaborate,  and  as  they  approached  the 
city  became  continuous.  The  people  were  throwing 
down  flowers  from  their  windows  and  hanging  out 
flags.  At  the  doors  of  the  larger  houses  crowds  were 
assembling  to  receive  free  distributions  of  beer;  and 
down  some  of  the  turnings  off  the  main  street  Jeremy 
could  see  rings  of  men  and  women  beginning  already 


TRIUMPH  217 

to  dance  and  romp  in  the  abandon  of  an  unexpected 
holiday. 

In  Piccadilly  the  crowd  had  grown  impenetrable; 
and  by  the  spot  where  the  Tube  Station  had  stood  they 
were  brought  to  a  halt  and  remained  for  some  min- 
utes. Loud  and  incessant  cheering  mingled  with  the 
noise  of  the*  bells.  Daring  young  girls  ran  out  from 
the  crowd  to  hang  the  victors  with  flowers ;  and  Jer- 
emy saw  with  concern  the  profusion  of  blossoms  cov- 
ering first  his  horse's'  head  and  at  last  mounting  up 
round  his  own.  The  mechanical  bowing  and  smiling 
which,  the  Speaker  had  enjoined  on  him  began  to  tell 
on  his  nerves.  He  was  conscious  of  bright  eyes  per- 
sistently seeking  his,  as  the  lingering  hands  fastened 
garlands  wherever  there  was  room  for  them,  on  his 
saddle  or  on  his*  coat.  He  turned  his  head  uncomfort- 
ably this  way  and  that,  shifted  in  the  saddle,  sought 
shamefacedly  the  eyes  of  the  Canadian  for  some  sort 
of  sympathy.  When  he  saw  that  Thomas  Wells  had 
had  few  wreaths  bestowed  on  him  and  was  grinning 
with  more  than  his  usual  malice,  he  looked  away  again 
hastily. 

The  noise  and  movement  around  him  continually 
increased ;  and  it  seemed  that  every  minute  some  new 
bell  found  its  voice  and  the  crowd  grew  larger.  Jeremy 
felt  crushed  and  stunned,  felt  that  he  was  sinking 
under  the  weight  of  the  people's  enthusiasm.  He  felt 
so  small  and  so  oppressed  that  it  seemed  impossible* 
that  most  of  this  could  be  meant  for  him.  And  yet 
vaguely,  dully,  he  could  see  the  Speaker  at  his  side, 
pointing  at  him  and  apparently  shouting  something. 
He  could  not  make  out  what  it  was ;  but  he  knew  that 
every  time  the  Speaker  paused  the  continuous  yelling 
of  the  crowd  rose  to  a  frantic  crescendo,  in  which  the 


2i8      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

whole   world    seemed  to   sway    dizzily    around    him. 

Suddenly,  when  he  thought  that  he  could  bear  no 
more,  there  was  a  wavelike  motion  in  the  press  before 
them ;  and  it  broke  open,  leaving  a  passage  through  it. 
A  carriage  advanced  slowly  and  stopped ;  and  out  of  it 
came  the  Lady  Burney,  followed  by  the  Lady  Eva, 
each  of  them  carrying  in  each  hand  a  small  wreath  of 
green  leaves.  Jeremy,  petrified,  watched  them  walking 
through  the  narrow  clear  space.  The  Lady  Burney 
moved  very  slowly  with  corpulent  dignity  and  ac- 
knowledged the  cheering  as  she  came,  while  the  Lady 
Eva  seemed  nerv^ous,  and  looked  persistently  at  the 
ground.  When  they  reached  the  little  group  of  mo- 
tionless horsemen,  the  Lady  Burney  would  have 
handed  a  wreath  to  the  Speaker,  but  he  signed  her 
away,  crying  in  a  loud  voice : 

"Both  to  Jeremy  Tuft!     Both  to  Jeremy  Tuft!" 

The  crowd  redoubled  its  vociferations,  while  Jer- 
emy, feeling  himself  at  the  lowest  point  of  misfortune, 
leant  over  to  the  Lady  Burney.  She  deposited  both  of 
her  wreaths  somewhere,  anywhere,  on  the  saddle  be- 
fore him  and  then,  raising  her  arms,  firmly  embraced 
him  and  planted  a  kiss  on  his  cheek,  just  underneath 
the  left  eye.  He  nearly  yelled  aloud  in  his  astonish- 
ment; but  before  he  could  do  or  say  anything,  she 
had  rolled  away  and  the  Lady  Eva  was  standing  in 
her  place. 

It  seemed  to  Jeremy  at  this  moment  that  the  shout- 
ing abruptly  grew  less,  and  that  as  the  noise  faded  the 
surroundings  faded  too,  and  became  misty  and  unreal. 
There  was  nothing  left  vivid  and  substantial  in  the 
world  but  himself,  numb,  dazed,  unhappy,  and  the  tall 
girl  beside  him,  her  face  bravely  raised  to  his,  though 
her  cheeks  were  burning.     She,  too,  seemed,  by  the 


TRIUMPH  219 

convulsive  movement  of  her  hands,  to  be  about  to  put 
her  wreaths  on  any  spot  that  would  hold  them,  but, 
with  an  effort  that  made  her  body  quiver,  she  con- 
trolled herself  and  placed  one  on  his  head,  from  which 
the  hat  long  since  had  gone,  and  fastened  the  other  on 
his  breast.  She  did  this  with  interminable  delibera- 
tion, while  the  people  maintained  their  astonishing 
quietude.  Then,  after  a  pause,  she  put  her  arms  round 
his  neck  and  placed  her  lips  on  his  cheek.  At  this 
signal  the  crowd's  restrained  joy  broke  out  tumultu- 
ously.  Jeremy  closed  his  eyes  and  swayed  over 
towards  the  girl,  then  caught  at  his  horse's  mane  to 
save  himself  as  she  slipped  away. 

When  they  began  to  move  again,  he  had  lost  all 
control  of  himself.  He  shivered  like  a  man  in  a  high 
fever,  his  teeth  were  chattering,  and  he  was  sobbing 
ungovernably.  He  had  afterwards  a  confused  mem- 
ory of  how  they  proceeded  slowly  down  the  Hay- 
market  into  Whitehall,  and  how  a  dozen  helpers  at 
once  sought  to  lift  him  from  his  horse  outside  the 
door  of  the  Treasury. 


Jeremy's  next  distinct  impression  was  that  of  sitting 
in  a  small  room  while  the  Speaker  poured  down  his 
throat  a  glass  of  neat  smoke-flavored  whisky.  It  re- 
vived him,  and  he  straightened  himself  and  stood  up, 
but  he  found  that  his  back  ached  and  that  his  legs 
were  unsteady.  The  Speaker  forced  him  down  again 
and  bent  over  him  tenderly,  muttering  caressing  and 
soothing  words  at  the  back  of  his  throat. 

"You  will  feel  better  presently,"  he  said  at  last ;  and 
he  went  out  softly,  looking  back  and  smiling  as  he 
went.     When  he  was  alone,  Jeremy  rose  again  and 


220      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

walked  towards  the  door,  but  was  checked  at  once 
by  a  great  fatigue  and  weakness.  He  looked  round 
the  room,  and,  seeing  a  couch,  threw  himself  at  full 
length  upon  it. 

"I  wish  I  could  go  to  sleep,"  he  murmured  to  him- 
self. But  his  brain,  though  it  was  exhausted,  was  so 
clear  and  active  that  he  gave  up  all  hope  of  it.  When, 
a  minute  later,  sleep  came  to  him,  it  would  have  aston- 
ished him  if  he  could  have  noticed  it  coming. 

He  woke  to  wonder  how  long  he  had  been  uncon- 
scious. It  had  been  about  noon  when  they  had  ar- 
rived at  the  Treasury;  but  now  the  tall  trees  outside 
the  window  hid  the  sky  and  prevented  him  guessing 
by  the  sun  what  hour  it  was.  He  turned  over  on  to 
his  back  and  stared  up  lazily  at  the  ceiling.  The  con- 
fusion which  had  at  first  overwhelmed  his  mind,  and 
the  unnatural  clarity  which  had  followed  it,  were  both 
gone,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  normal  again,  not  even 
very  much  tired.  The  indolence  and  calm  of  the  spirit 
which  he  now  experienced  _were  delicious :  they  were 
like  the  physical  sensations  which  succeed  violent 
exercise. 

He  looked  down  again  with  a  start,  as  he  heard  the 
door  quietly  opened ;  and  he  saw  the  Lady  Eva  stand- 
ing there.  She  had  a  mysterious  smile  on  her  lips, 
and  her  whole  attitude  suggested  that  she  was  bracing 
herself  to  meet  something  which  frightened  but  did 
not  displease  her.  Jeremy  rose  abruptly,  his  heart 
beating,  and  tried  to  speak;  but  he  could  not  get  out 
a  single  word. 

"My  father  sent  me  to  ask  if  you  were  better,"  said 
the  Lady  Eva  in  a  low  voice.  As  he  did  not  answer 
she  closed  the  door  behind  her  and  advanced  into  the 
room.     "Are  you  better?"  she  repeated,  a  little  more 


TRIUMPH  221 

firmly.  Jeremy  took  a  step  towards  her  and  hesitated. 
The  situation  seemed  plain,  and  yet,  at  the  last  moment 
of  decision,  his  will  was  paralyzed  by  a  fear  that  he 
might  be  absurdly  deceiving  himself. 

"I  am  much  better  now,"  he  answered,  with  an 
effort.     "I  only  feel  a  Httle  tired." 

"There  is  a  banquet  at  five  o'clock.  I  hope  you  will 
be  able  to  attend  it." 

Jeremy  shivered  slightly  and  his  wits  began  to  re- 
turn to  him.  "Will  it  be  like — like  this  morning?"  he 
enquired  with  a  faint  smile. 

She  smiled  a  little  in  reply.  "Don't  you  want  us  to 
be  grateful  to  you?"  she  said.  "You  know  what  you 
have  saved  us  from — all  of  us.  How  can  we  ever 
reward  you?" 

"That's  my  chance,"  Jeremy's  mind  insisted  again 
and  again.  "That's  my  chance  .  .  .  that's  my  chance 
...  I  ought  to  speak  now."  But  the  short  interval 
of  her  silence  slipped  away,  and  she  went  on  gently: 

"You  must  expect  to  be  congratulated  and  toasted. 
Will  you  be  strong  enough  to  bear  it?  My  father 
will  be  disappointed  if  you  are  not." 

It  was  at  that  moment,  quite  irrelevantly  and  by  a 
process  he  did  not  understand,  that  Jeremy  took  the 
Lady  Eva  in  his  arms.  Afterwards  he  had  no  con- 
sciousness, no  recollection,  of  the  instant  in  which  their 
lips  had  met.  There  had  simply  been  an  insurgence 
of  his  passion  and  of  his  loneliness,  ending  in  an  action 
that  blinded  him.  The  next  thing  he  remembered 
was  folding  her  bowed  head  into  his  shoulder,  stroking 
her  smooth  hair  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  muttering 
hoarsely  and  helplessly,  "Dearest  .  .  .  dear  one  .  .  ." 

Then  they  were  sitting  side  by  side  on  the  couch  and 
their  positions  were  reversed.     His  head  lay  on  her 


222      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

shoulder,  while  her  fingers  moved  gently  up  and  down 
his  cheek.  He  stayed  thus  for  some  minutes  without 
speaking  or  moving.  He  had  been  in  love  before  and 
had  not  escaped  the  mood  in  which  young  men  picture 
the  surrender  of  the  beloved.  He  had  even  more  than 
once,  after  a  long  or  a  short  wooing,  held  a  girl  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her.  But  he  had  never  yet  seen 
this  sudden  and  astonishing  transformation  of  a 
stranger,  mysterious  and  incalculable,  whose  faults  and 
peculiarities  were  as  obvious  as  her  beauty  was  en- 
chanting, into  a  creature  who  could  thus  silently  and 
familiarly  comfort  him.  The  moment  before  she  had 
been  some  one  else,  the  Lady  Eva,  a  person  as  to  whose 
opinion  of  himself  he  was  uncertain  and  curious,  that 
most  baffling  and  impenetrable  of  all  enigmas,  another 
human  being,  divided  from  him  by  every  barrier  that 
looks  or  speech  can  put  in  the  way  of  understanding. 
And  now  she  was  at  once  a  lover,  a  part  of  himself,  a 
spirit  known  by  his  without  any  need  of  words.  He 
adjusted  himself  slowly  to  the  miracle. 

Presently  he  raised  his  head  and  searched  her  eyes 
keenly.  She  bore  his  gaze  without  flinching;  and 
something  again  drew  their  mouths  together.  Then 
Jeremy  said, 

"I  must  speak  to  your  father  at  once.  Do  you 
suppose  he  will  feel  that  I  have  presumed  on  his  grati- 
tude to  me  ?" 

"I  know  he  will  not,"  she  answered.  "I  am  sure  he 
meant  to  give  me  to  you.  Do  you  think  that  otherwise 
.  .  ."  She  stopped,  and  there  was  a  long  pause. 
"But  I  wanted  you  .  .  .  first  .  .  ."  Again  she  could 
not  go  on,  but  began  to  sob  a  little,  quietly.  Jeremy, 
helpless  and  inexperienced,  could  think  of  nothing 
better  to  do  than  to  gather  her  into  his  arms  and  kiss 


TRIUMPH  223 

her  hair.  His  sudden  comprehension  of  her  seemed  to 
have  vanished  with  as  Httle  warning  as  it  came.  She 
was  again  a  mysterious  creature;  but  now  the  mystery 
was  a  new  one.  He  was  hke  a  man  who,  after  the 
triumph  of  accompHshing  a  steep  ascent,  finds  that 
he  has  reached  no  more  than  the  first  slope  of  the 
mountain. 

When  her  face  was  hidden  she  continued  with  more 
confidence,  but  in  a  low  and  broken  voice.  "I  wanted' 
you  to  tell  me  that  you  .  .  .  wanted  me,  before  my 
father  gave  me  to  you.  I  thought  .  .  .  perhaps  you 
did  ...  I  hoped  .  .  ."  She  freed  herself  from  his 
arms  and  sat  up,  looking  at  him  with  proud  eyes, 
though  her  face  was  blazing.  "It  is  better  than  being 
given  to  you  only  as  a  reward  for  winning  a  battle," 
she  finished  deliberately. 

Jeremy  experienced  the  most  inexplicable  feeling  of 
the  young  lover — admiration  for  the  beloved.  He 
wished  to  hold  her  away  from  him,  to  contemplate  the 
lovely  face,  the  gallant  eyes,  to  tell  her  how  wonderful 
she  was,  and  how  he  could  thank  Heaven  for  her  even 
if  he  might  never  touch  her  hand  again.  And  on  the 
heels  of  this  came  a  great  rush  of  unbearable  longing, 
with  the  realization  that  human  tongue  was  not  able 
to  express,  or  human  nerves  to  endure,  his  love  for  her. 
He  turned  dizzy  and  faint,  his  sight  went  black,  and 
he  stretched  out  his  arms  vaguely  and  helplessly. 
When  she  gave  herself  into  them,  he  clasped  her 
fiercely  as  though  by  force  he  could  make  her  part 
of  himself,  and  she  bore  his  clumsy  violence  gladly. 

"This  hurts  me,"  he  said  in  the  puzzled  voice  of  a 
child,  when  he  had  let  her  go  again.  She  gave  him 
with  wet  eyes  a  sufficient  answer.  Then  he  went  on 
with  the  same  simplicity,  "I  have  been  so  lonely  hert 


224      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

I  didn't  know  how  lonely.  Are  we  going  to  be  happy 
now?  I  am  afraid  ...  of  what  may  happen  ,  .  ." 
She  kissed  him  once  and  rose. 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  said  steadily.  "Oh,  we  shall 
be  happy — this  dread  means  nothing,  it  is  only  because 
we  are  so  happy."  He  started  and  looked  at  her,  made 
uneasy  by  her  echo  of  his  thoughts.  "Good-by,  my 
dear,"  she  said.  She  left  the  room  quietly  without  his 
raising  a  hand  to  keep  her  back. 

When  she  had  gone  his  feelings  were  too  violent 
to  find  vent  in  any  movement.  He  sat  quite  still  for 
some  minutes  until  his  brain  was  calmer  and  he  could 
at  last  stand  up  and  walk  about  the  room.  It  was 
thus  that  the  Speaker  found  him ;  and  Jeremy  stopped 
guiltily  and  stood  waiting.  The  old  man  was  evi- 
dently still  in  good  humor.  He  stroked  his  chin  and 
regarded  Jeremy  with  beaming  eyes. 

"I  take  it  you  are  feeling  better,"  he  pronounced 
drily,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"I  am  quite  well,"  Jeremy  answered  hurriedly,  "very 
well.    I  must  tell  you  at  once,  sir " 

The  Speaker  stopped  him  with  a  gesture.  "I  know. 
I  passed  my  daughter  in  the  corridor  leading  to  her 
room.  You  want  to  tell  me  that  you  have  taken  my 
gift  before  I  could  make  it.  Nevertheless,  I  shall  have 
the  great  joy  of  putting  her  hand  in  yours  at  the  ban- 
quet to-night." 

"I  can't  thank  you  .  .  ."  Jeremy  mumbled. 

The  Speaker  made  a  benevolent  movement  of  his 
hand.  "What  you  and  she  have  done,"  he  went  on, 
"is  much  against  our  customs,  but  we  are  not  ordinary 
people,  you  and  I  and  she.  You  will  be  happy  to- 
gether, and  it  will  make  me  happy  to  see  you  so.  And 
I  think  you  are  young  enough  to  get  from  her  the 


TRIUMPH  225 

help  that  I  should  have  had,  if  there  had  not  been  so 
many  years  between  us.  She  has  something  of  me 
in  her  that  you  will  be  able  to  use.  You  will  need 
to  use  it,  for  you  will  have  a  great  deal  to  do,  both 
now  and  afterwards,  when  I  am  gone  and  you  are 
the  Speaker." 

Jeremy  inclined  his  head  in  silence. 

"The  banquet  is  in  half  an  hour  from  now,"  the 
Speaker  said,  turning  towards  the  door.  "If  you  are 
well  enough  to  attend  it,  you  must  go  and  dress  at 
once." 


CHAPTER  XII 

NEW    CLOUDS 


TT  was  in  a  state  of  tranquil  elation  that  Jeremy  left 
■*•  his  room  to  take  his  place  at  the  banquet  in  the 
great  hall.  All  day  one  emotion  had  been  chasing  an- 
other through  his  mind,  like  clouds  hurrying  across  a 
storm-swept  sky.  Now  it  seemed  that  the  last  cloud 
had  gone  and  had  left  a  radiant  evening  serenity.  He 
had  been  crushed  by  congratulations  that  morning. 
In  the  afternoon  his  love  for  the  Lady  Eva  had  ex- 
ceeded his  endurance.  But  to-night  he  felt  himself 
able  to  bear  the  last  degree  of  joy  from  either.  He 
dressed  with  care,  and,  a  minute  or  so  before  the  hour, 
walked  with  a  light  and  confident  step  through  the 
corridors  of  the  Treasury.  He  approached  the  hall  by 
way  of  the  private  passages  and  turned  into  an  ante- 
room, where,  on  ceremonial  occasions,  the  Speaker  and 
his  family  and  his  guests  were  accustomed  to  wait 
until  the  proper  moment  for  taking  their  seats. 

Here  he  found  himself  alone.  After  lighting  an 
Irish  cigar,  he  strolled  jauntily  up  and  down  the  room 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  occasionally  humming 
a  bar  or  two  of  one  of  the  songs  of  the  nineteen-twen- 
ties — the  last  expressions  of  a  frivolous  and  hilarious 
phase  of  society — or  lightly  kicking  the  furniture  in 
the  sheer  height  of  his  spirits.     Not  once  since  the 

226 


NEW  CLOUDS  227 

moment  of  his  waking  in  the  Whitechapel  Meadows 
had  he  been  in  such  a  mood.  Something  had  happened 
to  him  of  which  he  had  no  experience  before ;  and  its 
paradoxical  result  was  to  make  him  thoroughly  at 
home  in  the  new  world  for  the  first  time.  He  felt 
like  a  man  who  in  choppy  water  has  been  bumping  up 
and  down  against  the  side  of  a  quay  and  has  at  last 
succeeded  in  making  himself  fast.  And,  even  in  this 
gay  and  careless  spirit,  he  was  deepl]!^  conscious  of 
what  it  was  that  had  made  him  gay  and  careless.  He 
continued,  even  through  his  light-hearted  and  some- 
what ludicrous  maneuvers  up  and  down  the  room, 
through  his  tuneless  but  jaunty  renderings  of  vulgar 
songs,  to  praise  Heaven  for  having  made  the  Lady 
Eva  and  for  having  given  her  to  him.  He  knew  that 
it  was  because  of  her  that  he  was  fit,  as  he  told  him- 
self, reverting  to  earlier  habits  of  phrase,  to  push  a 
house  over. 

He  did  not,  as  he  had  hoped,  get  a  moment  alone 
with  her  before  the  banquet  began.  The  Speaker 
beckoned  him  out  without  entering  the  room,  and  he 
could  only  catch  a  glimpse  of  her,  by  the  side  of  the 
Lady  Bumey,  as  they  entered  the  hall  together.  Im- 
mediately on  their  entrance  the  guests,  who  were 
already  assembled,  rose  to  their  feet  and  began  to  cheer 
deafeningly.  The  sound  had  on  Jeremy's  spirits  an 
effect  contrary  to  that  which  it  had  had  in  the  morn- 
ing. It  elated  him;  and  when  the  Speaker,  with  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  drew  him  into  a  more  prominent 
place  on  the  dais,  he  bowed  without  self-consciousness. 
At  last  the  Speaker  raised  his  hand  authoritatively  and 
obtained  silence.  There  was  a  shuffling  of  chairs;  and 
it  seemed  to  be  supposed  that  the  banquet  would  begin. 
But  the  Speaker  cried  in  a  thundering  voice : 


228      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

"My  friends!"  A  profound  and  instant  hush  fell 
on  the  assembly.  "My  friends,"  he  continued  less 
loudly.  "It  is  not  our  custom  to  make  speeches  before 
dinner  or  my  custom  to  make  long  speeches  at  any 
time.  I  do  not  intend  to  say  now  what  is  in  all  our 
minds.  But  I  believe  that  good  news  is  the  better 
for  being  soon  told ;  and  I  have  news  to  give  you  which 
I  would  like  you  to  enjoy  during  dinner  as  well  as 
after  it.  Jeremy  Tuft,  to  whom  under  Heaven  we 
owe  our  lives  and  our  freedom  to-night,  has  asked  for 
the  hand  of  my  daughter,  and  she  has  consented  to 
marry  him."  The  hush  continued,  while  he  said 
briskly  in  a  low  but  audible  tone,  "Your  right  hand, 
girl — your  right  hand,  Jeremy."  Then  he  went  6n 
again  more  loudly,  "I  put  their  hands  together.  I  am 
the  first  to  wish  them  happiness."  In  the  uproar  that 
followed,  Jeremy  had  a  confused  notion  that  he  and 
the  Lady  Eva  bowed  to  the  guests  in  the  hall  with 
equal  composure.  He  was  vividly  aware  that  the 
Lady  Burney  had  kissed  him,  this  time  on  both  cheeks. 
A  lull  followed,  in  which  his  condition  of  exaltation 
enabled  him  to  express  his  gratitude  and  joy  in  a  few 
words  without  faltering.  And  then  suddenly  it  was 
all  over.  He  was  sitting  next  to  the  Lady  Eva,  saying 
something  to  her,  he  knew  not  what,  in  an  undertone; 
and  the  banquet  had  begun. 

When  he  was  calm  enough  to  look  around  him,  he 
saw  that  the  table  on  the  dais  at  which  he  was  sitting 
was  occupied  by  all  the  most  influential  of  the  "big 
men"  that  were  in  the  habit  of  attending  the  Treasury. 
The  Speaker  sat  at  the  middle  of  one  side.  The  Lady 
Burney  sat  on  his  right,  and  beyond  her  the  Canadian, 
on  whose  face  for  once  the  ordinary  expression  of 
grinning  malice  had  given  way  to  one  of  sinister  dis- 


NEW  CLOUDS  229 

pleasure.  On  his  left  was  the  Lady  Eva,  next  to  whom 
came  Jeremy.  Jeremy's  neighbor  was  the  wife  of  a 
"big  man"  whom  he  knew  but  slightly,  and  who,  to  his 
relief,  was  at  once  engaged  in  conversation  by  the 
apparently  still  careworn  and  desponding  dignitary, 
Henry  Watkins.  From  this  survey  Jeremy  turned 
with  pleasure  to  the  Lady  Eva.  Her  mood  chimed 
with  his,  and  he  was  in  high  spirits.  Her  eyes  were 
gleaming,  her  color  was  bright,  and  she  talked  lightly 
and  without  restraint.  He  noticed,  too,  with  some 
pleasure  that  she  showed  a  healthy  appetite  and  took 
a  sensible  interest  in  good  food.  He  was  very  hungry; 
and  they  talked  for  some  time  about  the  dishes.  She 
did  not  drink,  however.  Nothing  was  served,  indeed, 
no  drinks  were  usual  in  England  of  that  day,  save 
whisky  and  beer,  both  of  which  were  produced  in 
good  quality  and  consumed  in  large  quantities.  Jer- 
emy, fearful  of  the  effect  either  might  have  on  him 
in  his  already  stimulated  condition,  drank  whisky 
sparingly,  having  weakened  it  with  a  great  deal  of 
water.  So  the  banquet  went  through  its  innumerable 
courses  to  the  last  of  them.  At  the  end  the  servants 
cleared  the  table,  and,  with  the  costly  Irish  cigars, 
great  decanters  were  brought  in.  These  contained  a 
kind  of  degenerate  port  which,  for  ceremonial  reasons, 
was  usually  produced  on  the  greatest  occasions.  But 
it  was  very  nasty;  and  most  persons  confined  them- 
selves to  a  single  glass  of  it,  which  they  took  because, 
for  some  inscrutable  reason,  it  had  been  the  custom 
of  their  ancestors. 

The  speeches,  which  began  at  this  point,  were  ex- 
cessively long  and  tedious.  Jeremy  gathered  that  a 
succession  of  hour-long  speeches  on  every  public  oc- 
casion was  one  of  the  habits  of  the  time,  though  it 


230      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

seemed  to  him  as  incomprehensible  as  seemed  in  the 
twentieth  century  the  even  longer  sermons  of  an 
earlier  period.  Notable  after  notable  arose  and  made 
the  same  remarks  about  the  victory  and  the  marriage, 
sometimes  not  even  perceptibly  varying  the  language. 
It  was  only  in  Henry  Watkins's  oration  that  he  found 
any  gleam  of  interest. 

It  began  dully  enough.  The  man  looked  gloomy, 
and  his  utterance  was  halting.  Jeremy  was  at  first 
soothed  into  sleepiness  by  the  monotonous  voice.  He 
decided  that  this  great  and  wealthy  man  was  almost 
certainly  a  descendant  of  the  charwoman  from  whom 
he  had  had  tlie  earliest  intimation  that  "trouble"  was 
really  in  the  air.  There  was  something  unmistakably 
reminiscent  both  in  his  despondency  and  in  his  stu- 
pidity. But  all  at  once  a  new  resemblance  struck  his 
ears  and  stimulated  his  attention.  Mrs.  Watkins,  in 
that  fast  fading  antiquity,  had  brought  him  bodements 
of  ill;  and  this  latest  scion  of  her  line  seemed  to  be 
playing  the  same  part. 

"This  young  man,"  said  Henry  Watkins  in  stum- 
bling accents,  "has  delivered  us  all — I  say,  has  de- 
livered us  all,  from  a  great,  a  very  great  misfortune. 
If  greater,  yes,  if  much  greater  misfortune  should 
threaten  us,  it  is  to  him,  it  is  to  him,  under  Providence, 
and  our  wise  ruler,  that  we  shall  look  for  help.  And 
I  say,  my  friends,  I  say  and  repeat,"  he  droned  on, 
"that  we  must  not  regard  ourselves  as  safe  from  all 
misfortunes " 


The  Speaker,  one  place  removed  from  Jeremy, 
moved  sharply,  knocked  over  a  glass  and  scraped  his 
foot  on  the  floor.  He  interrupted  the  flow  of  the 
speech ;  and  the  orator  paused  and  looked  round  at 
him,  half  grieved,  half  questioning.    The  Speaker  took 


NEW  CLOUDS  231 

the  glance;  and  it  seemed  to  Jeremy  that  it  was  in 
answer  that  he  frowned  so  savagely.  The  melancholy 
expression  on  Henry  Watkins's  face  deepened  by  a 
shade  and  became  dogged.  He  continued  with  some- 
thing of  defiance  in  his  voice. 

"I  say  we  ought  not  to  think  that  we  have  seen  the 
worst  that  can  happen  to  us.  This — all  this  unex- 
pected danger  which  we  have  survived  ought  to  teach 
us  never  again  for  a  single  moment  to  think  ourselves 
in  safety."  He  concluded  abruptly  and  sat  down.  He 
had  apparently  spoiled  the  Speaker's  joviality;  and 
he  had  propounded  to  Jeremy  a  riddle  very  hard  of 
solution.  Jeremy  felt  certain  that  some  purpose  had 
lain  behind  his  words,  other  than  his  usual  pessimism, 
and  that  the  Speaker's  interruption  had  betokened 
something  more  than  his  usual  boredom. 

"Do  you  know  what  he  meant?"  he  asked  of  the 
Lady  Eva ;  but  she  shook  her  head.  He  glanced  along 
the  table  to  see  if  Thomas  Wells's  expression  would 
throw  any  light  on  the  matter.  But  he  had  left  his 
place  and  had  moved  away  to  talk  to  a  friend  at  some 
distance.  Jeremy  could  not  make  out  what  it  was  all 
about,  and  gave  it  up.  And  now  the  formal  part  of 
the  banquet  was  over;  and  the  guests  began  to  leave 
their  places  and  to  move  about  in  the  hall. 

This  was  the  signal  for  all  who  had  ever  spoken 
to  Jeremy  to  come  to  him  and  congratulate  him.  He 
observed  in  their  various  manners  a  curious  mixture 
of  genuine  homage  and  of  assumed  adulation  of  the 
man  who  might  soon  be  their  ruler.  In  the  midst  of 
it  he  saw  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  around  him 
Roger  Vaile,  lounging  with  an  air  of  detachment  and 
indifference.  He  broke  off  the  conversation  in  which 
he  was  engaged  and  forced  a  way  to  his  friend. 


232      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

"Roger!"  he  cried,  taking  him  by  the  hand. 

"Good  luck  to  you.  Jeremy,"  Roger  repHed  gently. 
"I've  reason  to  be  pleased  with  myself  now,  haven't 
I? — even  though  it  was  an  accident." 

"Be  sure  I  shall  never  forget  you,  Roger,"  Jeremy 
murmured;  and  then,  feeling  in  his  reply  something 
of  the  manner  of  a  great  man  towards  a  dependent, 
he  blushed  and  was  confused.  Roger's  answering 
smile  was  friendly;  and  before  Jeremy  could  recover 
his  tongue  he  had  slipped  away.  Soon  half  the  guests 
had  gone;  for  it  was  an  early  race.  When  the  hall 
was  beginning  to  look  empty  he  felt  a  plucking  at  his 
sleeve  from  behind  him ;  and  turning  he  saw  the  Lady 
Eva.  He  followed  her  into  the  little  ante-room  behind 
the  hall  and  found  that  they  were  alone  there. 

She  shut  the  door  behind  them  and  opened  her  arms. 

"Only  a  minute,"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  my  dear,  my 
dear,  goodnight.  I  am  so  happy."  He  embraced  her 
silently,  and  his  eyes  pricked.  Hardly  had  he  released 
her  before  she  had  gone.  He  went  back  into  the  hall 
and  found  the  last  guest  departing,  and  the  servants 
putting  out  the  candles.  He  wondered  for  a  moment 
why  all  great  days  must  end  with  this  flat  moment; 
but  the  thought  did  not  depress  him.  He  walked 
away,  slow  and  unaccompanied,  to  his  own  room. 

When  he  was  there  he  busied  himself  for  some 
moments  with  trifles  and  delayed  to  undress.  He 
wanted  very  much  to  lie  awake  for  hours  so  that  he 
could  taste  again  all  the  most  exquisite  moments  of 
the  day  that  was  just  gone.  He  also  desired  with 
equal  intensity  to  fall  asleep  at  once,  so  that  he  might 
begin  the  new  day  as  soon  as  possible.  He  had  got  so 
far  as  taking  off  his  coat  when  there  was  a  discreet 


NEW  CLOUDS  233 

knocking  at  the  door.  He  opened  it  and  found  a 
servant,  who  said  deferentially: 

"The  Speaker  would  like  to  see  you  at  once,  sir, 
in  his  own  room." 

"All  right,"  Jeremy  answered,  picking  up  his  coat. 
And  then,  when  the  man  had  gone,  he  murmured  to 
himself  in  sudden  dread,  "What  can  it  be?  Oh,  what 
can  it  be?" 


Jeremy  hastened  down  the  stairs  to  the  Speaker's 
room  in  a  state  of  rapidly  increasing  agitation.  He 
did  not  know,  he  could  not  imagine,  what  it  was  that 
he  feared;  but  he  had  been  raised  to  so  high  a 
pinnacle  of  joy  that  the  least  touch  of  the  unexpected 
could  set  him  trembling  and  looking  for  evil.  When 
he  reached  his  object  he  found  the  old  man  alone, 
seated  sprawling  in  his  great  chair  by  the  open  win- 
dow, his  wrinkled,  thick-veined  hands  spread  calmly 
on  the  carven  arms.  Two  or  three  candles  stood  on 
the  table  behind  him,  flickering  and  guttering  slightly 
in  the  faint  night  breeze. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come  at  once,  my  son,"  he 
observed,  turning  his  head  a  little,  in  a  tone  which 
showed  no  symptoms  of  trouble.  "You  had  not  gone 
to  bed,  then?  I  wished  to  speak  to  you  alone,  before 
the  others  have  come  that  I  have  sent  for.  Sit  down 
and  listen  to  me." 

Jeremy  drew  up  a  smaller  chair  on  the  other  side 
of  the  window  and  obeyed. 

"We  have  yet  another  battle  before  us,"  the  Speaker 
pronounced  abruptly. 

Jeremy  started.    "What "  he  began. 

"Another  battle,"  the  old  man  repeated.    "Do  not  be 


234      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

distressed.  I  know  this  is  ill  news  for  a  bridegroom, 
yet  it  is  not  so  bad  as  it  seems.  When  we  returned 
this  morning — it  was  after  you  had  fainted  at  the 
door  and  while  you  were  still  unconscious — I  learnt 
that  the  President  of  Wales  had  made  up  his  mind, 
only  a  few  days  after  the  Northerners,  to  march  on 
London.  I  knew  that  there  was  trouble  of  some  kind 
in  the  west,  but  I  had  got  no  trustworthy  news  to 
show  me  how  far  it  had  gone.  But  information  came 
to  me  this  morning  that  the  President  and  his  army 
had  passed  round  the  Cotswolds  and  were  marching 
towards  Oxford.  The  worst  part  of  the  news  was 
that  the  Gloucestershire  wool-merchants  had  joined 
with  him.  Of  course,  they  were  very  much  interested 
in  what  might  happen  to  the  Chairman.  That  was 
what  that  gloomy  dullard,  Henry  Watkins,  was  hint- 
ing at  in  his  speech  to-night — I  know  you  saw  me 
frowning  at  him.  I  tell  you  frankly  I  thought  nothing 
of  it.  It  was  only  the  Yorkshiremen  that  disturbed 
the  others;  and  I  took  it  for  granted  that  our  victory 
would  settle  all  quarrels  at  once." 

"Yes  .  .  ."  Jeremy  murmured  doubtfully  in  the 
pause. 

"Well,  I  was  wrong.  It  seems  that  a  survivor  got 
away  to  the  west  this  morning,  apparently  just  after 
Thomas  Wells  took  the  Chairman  prisoner.  I  don't 
know  how  he  went.  I  think  he  must  have  got  on  to 
the  railway  somewhere  and  found  an  engine  ready  to 
move.  He  could  hardly  have  moved  so  fast  other- 
wise. Anyway,  he  found  the  President,  with  the 
greater  part  of  his  army,  at  Oxford — and  the  Pres- 
ident has  sent  a  letter  to  me.  It  reached  me  only  a 
few   minutes   ago."      He   stopped   and   ran   a   hand 


NEW  CLOUDS  235 

through  his  beard,  regarding  Jeremy  thoughtfully  with 
tranquil  eyes. 

"Go  on  ...  go  on,"  Jeremy  whispered  tensely. 

"That  was  quick  work,  wasn't  it?"  the  Speaker 
ruminated.  "He  can't  have  started  before  seven  this 
morning,  because  I'm  sure  the  Chairman  wasn't  taken 
till  then.  The  letter  reached  me  here  at  a  quarter  to 
midnight — less  than  seventeen  hours.  The  President 
was  in  a  great  hurry — I  know  him  well,  I  can  see  him 
raging."  He  checked  himself  and  smiled  at  Jererny 
with  a  kind  of  genial  malice.  "You  want  to  know 
what  he  said  in  his  letter?  Well,  he  warned  me  that 
he  would  hold  me  responsible  for  the  Chairman's  safe- 
keeping; and  he  summoned  me  to  a  conference  at 
Oxford  where  the  three  of  us  were  to  settle  our  dif- 
ferences and  rearrange  the  affairs  of  the  country." 

"And  what  answer  will  you  make?"  Jeremy  man- 
aged to  utter. 

"I  have  ordered  the  messenger  to  be  flogged  by  the 
grooms,"  the  Speaker  replied  composedly.  "I  expect 
that  they  are  flogging  him  now.  The  only  other 
answer  we  have  to  give,  Jeremy,  will  be  delivered  by 
your  guns." 

"But  this  is  terrible,"  Jeremy  cried,  springing  up 
from  his  chair.     "You  don't  understand " 

"Rubbish,  my  friend,"  the  old  man  interrupted  with 
an  air  of  serene  commonsense.  "It  means  only  that 
the  President  does  not  know  what  has  happened.  If 
he  still  wishes  to  fight  when  he  knows — why,  then  we 
will  fight  him.  I  hope  he  will  wish  it.  Perhaps  when 
he  is  broken  we  shall  have  peace  forever." 

Jeremy  walked  three  or  four  times  up  and  down 
the  room,  pressing  his  hands  together  and  trying  vainly 


236      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

by  a  violent  tension  of  all  his  muscles'  to  regain  hia 
composure. 

**You  don't  understand  a  bit,"  he  burst  out  at  last, 
"what  luck  it  all  was.  I  tell  you  it  was  luck,  merely 
luck.  .  .  ."  He  stopped,  stumbling  and  stuttering,  so 
much  confounded  by  this  unexpected  and  horrible 
menace  to  his  happiness,  that  he  was  unable  to  frame 
any  words  of  explanation. 

The  Speaker  continued  to  smile  at  him.  "You  are 
not  yourself  to-night,  Jeremy,"  he  chided  gently. 
"You  are  overwrought;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at.    You  will  find  your  next  triumph  less  exciting." 

But  Jeremy's  agitation  only  increased.  It  was  not 
only  his  own  future  that  was  at  stake,  but  the  Lady 
Eva's  also  and  his  future  with  her.  "Can't  you  make 
peace  with  him  ?"  he  demanded  wildly. 

"Peace "  the  Speaker  began  in  a  more  vehement 

tone.  But  before  he  could  go  on  the  door  was  opened 
and  two  servants  appeared,  dragging  between  them  a 
torn  and  disheveled  man,  whose  bloodshot  eyes  were 
rolling  madly  in  their  sockets,  and  whose  face  was 
white  and  twisted  with  pain.  Just  inside  the  room  they 
let  go  his  arms,  and  he  fell  sprawling  on  the  floor  with 
a  faint  moan. 

"Peace!"  cried  the  Speaker,  rising  from  his  chair 
and  pointing  at  the  man.  ''That  is  the  ambassador  of 
peace  I  shall  send  back  to  the  President!  Peace  be- 
tween us,  I  thank  God,  is  impossible  unless  he  humbles 
himself  to  me!" 

Jeremy  took  a  step  towards  the  prostrate  figure  and 
recoiled  again,  seeing  that  the  torn  garments  had  been 
roughly  pulled  on  over  lacerated  and  bleeding 
shoulders.  He  recovered  himself  and  bent  down  over 
the  unhappy  creature^  whose  breath  came  thick  and 


NEW  CLOUDS  237 

short  through  the  writhing  mouth.  He  kx)ked  up  with 
horror  in  his  eyes. 

"This  is  .  .  .  this  is  the  President's  messenger?" 
he  muttered. 

The^  Speaker  nodded. 

"But  you  didn't  do  this  to  the  men  from  Bradford. 
You  let  them  go  back  untouched." 

"I  will  make  an  end  of  these  troubles!"  Again 
Jeremy  could  see  in  the  old  man  a  reincarnation  of 
one  of  the  vengeful  prophets  of  the  ancient  Jews.  But 
the  next  moment  the  menacing  attitude  was  relaxed, 
and  the  Speaker,  turning  to  the  immobile  servants, 
said  coldly :  "Take  this  fellow  out  and  lay  him  down 
in  the  courtyard.  Tether  his  horse  fast  beside  him. 
When  he  is  able  to  move,  let  him  go  back  without 
hindrance  to  his  master  and  say  what  has  been  done 
to  him." 

The  men  bowed,  stooped  over  the  moaning  wretch 
and  dragged  him  roughly  away.  A  profound  silence 
followed  his  last  inarticulate,  half-conscious  com- 
plaints as  he  was  borne  down  the  corridor. 

"And  now,"  said  the  Speaker,  resuming  his  serenity 
of  manner  without  an  effort,  "now  we  must  make  our 
plans.  I  propose  that  we  shall  march  out  at  once  and 
prepare  to  meet  the  President  west  of  London  if  he 
wishes  to  attack  us;  and  I  have  decided  that  you  shall 
take  command  of  the  army." 

"I?"  Jeremy  exclaimed.     "Oh,  but "     He  was 

overwhelmed  by  an  absurd  confusion.  Once  again  he 
was  in  the  nightmare  world,  struggling  with  shadows, 
wrestling  with  an  incomprehensible  mind  on  which 
he  could  never  get  a  grip.  "I  can't  command  the  army! 
I  know  something  about  guns,  but  I've  no  experience 
of  infantry.     I  shouldn't  .  .  .'*     His  protests  faded 


238      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

away  into  silence  before  the  Speaker's  imperturba- 
bility. "Guns  are  all  very  well  ...  I  don't  mind  .  .  . 
I  can't  .  .  ."  These  words  jerked  out  and  ceased, 
like  the  last  spasmodic  drops  from  a  fountain,  when 
the  water  has  been  turned  off  at  the  main.  Then, 
when  he  himself  supposed  that  he  had  finished,  he 
added  suddenly  with  an  air  of  conclusiveness:  "I 
know  something  about  guns  .  .  ." 

The  Speaker  made  no  answer  for  a  moment  or  two. 
When  he  did  it  was  slowly  and  with  extreme  delibera- 
tion. "You  won  this  morning's  battle  for  us,"  he 
said,  "by  the  use  of  guns.  Our  battle  against  the 
President,  if  it  is  ever  fought,  will  have  to  be  won  in 
the  same  way.  None  of  us  properly  understands  how 
to  do  it  but  you.  And,  after  all,  wasn't  there  a  great 
general  in  the  old  times,  somewhere  about  your  time, 
who  began  his  career  in  the  artillery  ?  What  was  his 
name?  I  know  so  little  of  history;  but  I  think  it  be- 
gan with  a  B." 

"Napoleon,"  Jeremy  suggested  with  a  half  hysteri- 
cal chuckle. 

"Napoleon?  Was  that  it?  I  thought  it  was  some 
other  name.    Well,  then,  if  he  could " 

"I  won't  do  it,"  Jeremy  suddenly  uttered. 

The  door  opened  again,  and  the  Canadian  entered. 
He  was  wrapped  in  a  great  furred  gown,  from  the 
ample  collar  of  which  his  face  hardly  protruded,  look- 
ing sharper  and  leaner  than  ever. 

"You  sent  for  me,"  he  said  in  a  colorless  and  slight- 
ly drowsy  voice.     "What  has  happened  now?" 

"Sit  down,"  the  Speaker  returned.  "Henry  Wat- 
kins  and  John  Hammond  will  be  here  in  a  moment." 

Without  a  word  the  Canadian  sank  into  a  chair  and 
drew  the  fur  of  his  gown  closely  round  his  ears  ajid 


NEW  CLOUDS  239 

mouth.  Over  the  folds  of  it  his  small,  red  eyes  looked 
out  with  an  unwavering  and  sinister  expression.  His 
arrival  brought  an  oppressive  silence  with  it;  and 
Jeremy  began  suddenly  to  feel  the  uncanny  effects  of 
being  thus  wakeful  in  a  sleeping  world.  He  looked 
furtively  at  the  calm,  stern  face  of  the  Speaker,  and 
saw  how  the  thick  lips  were  compressed  in  a  rigid  line. 
Outside  a  faint  and  eery  wind  persistently  moved  the 
leaves.  Within,  the  great  building  was  stonily  silent 
all  around  them ;  and  the  flames  of  the  candles  on  the 
table  danced  at  a  movement  of  the  air  or  burnt  up 
straight  and  still  in  the  succeeding  calm.  The  hush 
lasted  until  a  servant  announced  the  attendance  of 
Henry  Watkins  and  John  Hammond,  who  had  been 
fetched  out  of  their  beds  and  had  reached  the  Treas- 
ury together. 

"I  told  you,  sir,  I  told  you  how  it  would  be,"  said 
Henry  Watkins  at  once  in  a  voice  like  the  insistent 
notes  of  a  tolling  bell. 

The  Speaker  made  an  abrupt  gesture.  "You  have 
heard  then?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"We  passed  a  man  outside,  sir,  in  the  courtyard, 
lying  on  the  ground  beside  his  tethered  horse,"  John 
Hammond  interposed,  "and  we  made  inquiries  while 
we  were  waiting  to  be  brought  in  to  you." 

"I  have  made  no  secret  of  it,"  the  Speaker  said 
simply.  "Every  waking  man  in  the  Treasury  may 
know  all  about  it  by  now.  Well,  then  .  .  ."  And  in 
his  deliberate  and  unconcerned  manner  he  repeated  to 
them  the  same  story  that  he  had  told  to  Jeremy.  "Nor 
am  I  sorry  for  it,"  he  concluded.  "It  is  as  well  that 
we  should  be  done  with  all  this  at  once,  as  I  think  we 
shall  be." 

When  he  had  finished  the  Canadian  shifted  slightly 


240      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

in  his  chair.  "You  say  they  are  at  Oxford  now?"  he 
asked,  his  voice  a  Httle  muffled  by  the  thick  fur  that 
brushed  his  Hps.  The  Speaker  assented.  "And  the 
Gloucestershire  men  have  joined  them?"  Again  the 
Speaker  assented.  "Ah!"  murmured  the  Canadian 
enigmatically;  and  he  seemed  to  sink  further  into  the 
folds  of  his  gown,  as  though  he  were  preparing  him- 
self for  sleep. 

Henry  Watkins  and  John  Hammond  made  no  an- 
swer, but  looked  at  one  another  lugubriously. 

"Come,  gentlemen,"  the  Speaker  cried  heartily. 
We  know  now  that  we  have  nothing  to  be  afraid  of. 
I  have  determined  that  Jeremy  Tuft  shall  take  com-; 
mand  of  the  whole  army ;  and  I  am  sure  that  the  man 
"who  saved  us  this  morning  can  save  us  again." 

"Ah,  that  is  a  good  plan,"  observed  John  Hammond 
sagely.  He  was  a  heavy  man  of  slow  speech,  and  he 
wagged  his  head  solemnly  while  he  talked.  "Jeremy 
Tuft  will  command  the  whole  army.  That  is  a  very 
good  plan." 

"We  could  not  do  better,"  said  Henry  Watkins  with 
an  approach  to  cheerfulness. 

Jeremy  fancied  that  he  heard  Thomas  Wells  sniff 
under  his  wrappings;  and  the  justice  of  the  impHed 
criticism  twitched  horribly  at  his  nerves.  He  stared 
out  of  the  window  into  the  blackness,  a  resolve  taking 
shape  in  his  mind.  At  last  he  stood  up  deliberately 
and  spoke  with  a  roughness,  almost  arrogance,  that 
he  certainly  did  not  feel. 

"I  will  not  take  command  of  the  army,"  he  said, 
letting  the  words  fall  one  by  one.  "I  am  not  fit  to  do 
it  I  should  only  bring  disaster  on  all  of  us.  I  have 
too  much  at  stake  to  risk  it.  It  would  be  better  if 
Thomas  Wells  were  to  take  command."     He  stopped 


NEW  CLOUDS  241 

and  waited,  defiant  and  sullen.  The  Canadian  made 
one  sharp  movement,  then  folded  his  gown  more 
closely  around  him,  so  as  still  further  to  hide  his  face, 
and  sat  on  impassively. 

Henry  Watkins  was  at  him  at  once,  eagerly  argu- 
ing that  there  was  little  hope,  but  that  what  there 
was  lay  in  his  hands.  Jeremy  looked  around  as  though 
he  were  seeking  some  way  of  escape.  He  felt  very 
weary  and  alone.  He  didn't  want  to  argue :  it  was  a 
waste  of  time  and  pains  since  his  mind  was  made  up, 
and  neither  the  most  urgent  nor  the  most  persuasive 
reasoning  could  change  it.  But  while  Henry  Wat- 
kins  talked  and  he  countered  in  stubborn  monosyllables, 
he  was  watching  sidelong,  with  an  unnamed,  unad- 
mitted apprehension,  the  Speaker's  resolved  and  quiet 
face.  Suddenly  Henry  Watkins  ceased  and  threw 
up  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of  despair.  Then  the  Speaker 
rose,  walked  away,  and,  without  a  word,  tugged 
sharply  at  the  bell  pull.  A  servant  immediately  an- 
swered the  summons,  and  in  his  ear  the  old  man  de- 
livered a  long  whispered  order.  The  servant  bowed 
and  went  out,  and  the  Speaker  returned  to  his  seat. 
All  the  others  looked  at  him  curiously,  but  maintained 
the  silence  which  had  fallen  on  them. 

Then  Jeremy  involuntarily  broke  out,  "What  have 
you  done?    What  have  you  sent  for?" 

'T  have  sent  for  my  daughter,"  the  Speaker  an- 
swered steadily.  "It  is  time  for  her  to  be  called  into 
our  counsels." 


Jeremy's  muscles  jerked  and  quivered  at  the 
Speaker's  announcement,  but  he  said  nothing.  His 
mouth  set  more  firmly,  a  frown  came  on  his  forehead, 


242      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

and  his  hands,  thrust  under  his  folded  arms,  were  so 
tightly  clenched  that  he  had  a  sensation  of  pain  in  the 
knuckles.  Behind  this  appearance  of  resolution  his 
thoughts  were  plaintive  and  resentful.  He  repeated 
over  and  over  again  in  his  mind,  "I  will  not  give  way. 
I  must  not  give  way.  Why  a  ill  they  be  such  fools?" 
The  more  he  considered  it  the  more  certain  he  be- 
came that  he  was  not  competent  to  command  an  army. 
He  could  not  do  it,  he  told  himself,  and  at  the  same 
time  look  properly  after  his  guns.  Besides,  he  was 
modest  in  a  hard-headed  way;  and  he  refused  to  be- 
lieve that  he  had  the  qualities  which  are  necessary  in 
great  military  commanders.  The  fact  that  he  m.ost 
passionately  desired  that  they  should  win  the  coming 
battle  only  made  him  more  determined  to  refuse  this 
absurd  proposal.  As  he  sat  silent  in  the  ring  of  silent 
men  he  felt  injured  and  aggrieved,  and  his  temper 
grew  with  every  moment  more  obstinate. 

The  conversation  did  not  revive  after  the  Speaker's 
interruption,  for  a  sense  of  expectation  filled  the  room 
and  kept  it  in  abeyance.  Presently  the  old  man  rose 
statelily  from  his  chair  and,  moving  to  the  window, 
thrust  out  his  head  and  leant  his  arms  on  the  sill.  By 
doing  so  he  broke  the  tension  a  little ;  and  Jeremy  got 
up  and  went  to  the  table  to  look  for  a  cigar,  walking 
self-consciously  and  feeling  that  all  these  people  re- 
garded him  with  dislike.  When  he  had  found  a  cigar 
and  lit  it,  he  shrank  from  going  back  to  his  seat  an(J 
facing  them  again.  He  lingered  at  the  table,  where 
he  had  discovered  some  papers  of  his  own  relating  to 
the  guns;  and  these  made  an  excuse  with  which  he  could 
pretend  to  busy  himself.  He  was  vaguely  conscious 
somewhere  just  within  the  blurred  edge  of  his  vision 
that  John  Hammond  had  gone  over  to  Thomas  Wells 


NEW  CLOUDS  243 

and  was  talking  to  him  in  a  subdued  voice.  The 
Canadian  answered  seldom  and  briefly,  and  their  words 
floated  past  his  ears  in  a  faint  confusion  of  sound. 
Then  John  Hammond  grew  louder  and  more  urgent 
and  the  Canadian  exclaimed  morosely : 

"I  have  no  patience  .  .  ." 

John  Hammond  insisted;  and,  in  spite  of  himself, 
Jeremy  turned  his  head  sideways  to  listen. 

"It  would  be  better  to  be  beaten,"  he  heard  Thomas 
Wells  say,  almost  under  his  breath  but  with  a  vicious 
intensity,  "than  be  led  by  a  vampire  risen  God  knows 
how  from  the  grave!"  A  disagreeable  thrill  passed 
through  him;  but  before  he  could  stir  the  door  by  his 
side  opened  softly  and  the  Lady  Eva  stood  motionless 
on  the  threshold.  She  was  wearing  a  furred  robe,  like 
Thomas  Wells's ;  but  it  was  less  ample  and  hung  on  her 
more  gracefully.  Her  fair  hair  fell  in  two  long  plaits, 
loose  at  the  ends,  down  her  back,  and  her  eyes,  though 
they  shone  with  excitement,  yet  showed  that  she  had 
just  risen  from  sleep.  As  Jeremy  silently  regarded 
her,  she  glanced  down  and  pulled  the  hem  of  the  robe 
across  to  hide  her  bare  ankles. 

When  she  looked  beyond  him  and  saw  how  many 
others  there  were  in  the  room,  she  seemed  to  recoil  a 
little.  "Father,"  she  said,  speaking  quietly  but  steadily,' 
"you  sent  for  me!" 

The  Speaker  slowly  drew  his  great  shoulders  in 
through  the  window  and  turned  around.  "Come  i^, 
Eva,"  he  ordered  in  an  equable  voice,  "come  in  and 
sit  down.  These  are  all  friends  here,  and  you  need 
not  be  ashamed  before  them."  She  advanced  with 
short  steps,  sat  in  Jeremy's  chair,  which  stood  empty, 
and  arranged  the  hem  of  her  gown  about  her  feet 
and  the  collar  about  her  throat.     Then,  before  fixing 


244      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

her  eyes  on  the  old  man,  she  cast  a  candid  and  ardent 
regard  of  affection  at  Jeremy,  He  was  discomposed 
by  it,  and  only  with  an  effort  could  he  compel  his  eyes 
to  meet  hers  and  answer  them.  She  seemed  for  a 
moment  to  be  troubled ;  but  her  face  cleared  to  an  ex- 
pression of  eager  intentness  as  her  father  began  to  ad- 
dress her. 

"This  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  asked  you  to  help 
me,  Eva,"  he  said  with  kindly  and  matter-of-fact 
briskness.  "Perhaps  I  should  have  done  so  before; 
but  now  at  least  I  think  you  can  do  something  for  us 
that  no  one  else  can  do.  There  is  another  war  in 
front  of  us:  I  need  not  tell  you  now  how  or  why  it 
has  arisen.  It  will  be  nothing  at  all  if  we  face  it  prop- 
erly; and  therefore  I  have  designed  that  your  promised 
husband  here  shall  command  the  army.  He  refuses; 
I  do  not  know  why — perhaps  modesty  .  .  .  per- 
haps .  .  ."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  pursed  his 
lips  and  spread  out  his  hands,  palms  uppermost.  "I 
sent  for  you  because  I  thought  that  to-night  you  might 
be  able  to  sway  him,  as  I  cannot." 

During  this  speech  Jeremy's  anger  had  been  rising 
fast,  and  now  he  interrupted.  "This  is  most  unfair, 
sir,"  he  cried,  coming  forward  from  the  shadows  in 
which  he  had  been  hiding. 

"Be  quiet,  Jeremy,"  said  the  Speaker,  without  rais- 
ing his  voice,  but  with  a  note  of  sternness.  Then  he 
went  on  smoothly:  "My  girl,  I  ask  you  to  remember 
that  the  safety  of  all  of  us,  of  you  and  of  your 
mother  and  of  myself,  no  less  than  of  the  country,  de- 
pends on  our  leaving  nothing  undone  to  protect  our- 
selves. I  am  persuaded  that  Jeremy  Tuft  should  be 
our  leader,  but  I  cannot  convince  him.  I  put  our  case 
in  your  hands." 


^  NEW  CLOUDS  245 

The  girl  leant  forward  a  little  towards  him,  breath- 
ing quickly,  her  eyes  wide  open  and  her  lips  parted. 
A  shade  as  of  thought  passed  over  her  face ;  but  Jeremy 
broke  in  again,  still  looking  at  the  old  man. 

"You  won't  understand  me,  sir,"  he  protested 
anxiously.  "God  knows  I  would  do  what  you  ask  if 
I  thought  it  for  the  best.  But  I  know  what  I  can't  do 
and  you  don't.  You  exaggerated  what  I  did  this  morn- 
ing. You  don't  know  anything  about  it,  sir,  indeed 
you  don't.  There's  only  one  man  here  who  ought  to 
do  it,  and  that  is  Thomas  Wells.  You  ought  to  ap- 
point him.  I  will  serve  under  him  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  ." 
He  stopped,  a  little  frightened  by  what  in  his  eager- 
ness he  had  been  about  to  say.  While  he  had  been 
talking  desperately,  seeing  no  signs  of  help  on  the  faces 
around  him,  he  had  discovered  suddenly  his  deepest 
objection  to  the  proposal.  The  Canadian,  damn  him! 
was  the  man  for  the  job.  He  had  the  gusto  for  war, 
for  bloodshed  and  death,  which  commanders  need : 
he  was  the  only  true  soldier  among  them.  And  he 
hated  Jeremy.  Jeremy  continued  his  pause,  shying  at 
this  last,  this  fatal  argument.  Then  on  an  impulse  he 
chanced  it,  concluding  suddenly  with  a  gulp,  "And  he 
won't  serve  under  me."  The  ghost  of  a  chuckle  came 
from  the  Canadian  bunched  up  in  his  chair. 

The  Lady  Eva  swung  around  to  him  impetuously. 
"Thomas  Wells,"  she  murmured,  her  voice  thrilling 
with  an  intense  desire  to  persuade,  "you  won't  mind, 
will  you?     Help  me  to  get  him  to  accept." 

"I  won't  make  any  difficulties.  Lady  Eva,"  pro- 
nounced the  Canadian  levelly,  straightening  himself 
and  pulling  the  edge  of  his  robe  down  from  his  mouth. 
"Any  one  who  commands  the  army  is  at  liberty  to — to 
make  what  use  of  me  he  can — while  I'm  your  guest 


246      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

here,  I'm  not  stuck  on  commanding.  I  guess  these 
Httle  troubles  of  yours  aren't  any  business  of  mine. 
Anyway,  I  ought  to  be  going  back  home  soon,  since 
I  can't  go  and  stay  with  the  Chairman  of  Bradford, 
as  I  promised  him  once.  My  word,  sir,  but  it's  getting 
on  towards  morning!  I'm  beginning  to  feel  cold,"  he 
finished    inconsequently,    turning   to  the   Speaker. 

"It  isn't  fair,"  Jeremy  begun  again.  He  was  very 
tired.  His  body  ached  all  over,  and  his  eyelids  were 
beginning  to  droop.  His  determination  was  not  weak- 
ened, but  he  dreaded  the  effort  of  keeping  up  a  firm 
front  much  longer.  He  felt  too  weak  now  to  force 
his  own  view  on  the  stubborn  old  man. 

But  the  Speaker  ignored  him.  He  stood  up  and, 
including  the  three  other  men  in  one  confidential  glance, 
said  :  "Thomas  Wells  is  right,  gentlemen,  it  grows  very 
late.  Let  us  leave  them  alone  for  a  few  minutes.  We 
will  meet  again  in  the  morning.  Jeremy,  do  you  hear? 
I  will  not  accept  your  final  answer  until  the  morning." 
He  moved  with  ponderous  slowness  towards  his 
daughter  and  put  out  a  firm  hand  to  hold  her  down 
in  her  chair.  "Goodnight,  my  child!"  he  murmured, 
as  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  "Do 
what  you  can  for  us."  His  accent  in  these  words  was 
pathetic ;  but  his  air  as  he  led  the  way  to  the  door  was 
one  of  infinite  cunning. 

As  soon  as  he  was  left  alone  with  the  Lady  Eva, 
Jeremy,  who  had  been  staring  out  into  the  invisible 
garden,  turned  reluctantly  around  and  faced  her,  in 
an  attitude  of  defense.  She  came  to  him  at  once,  and, 
kneeling  on  the  great  chair  beside  him,  threw  her  arms 
around  his  neck. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  brokenly  and  passionately, 
"don't — don't  look  at  me  like  that!" 


NEW  CLOUDS  247 

His  obstinacy  and  resentment  melted  suddenly  away 
as  he  responded  to  the  caress.  "Eva!"  he  muttered, 
"I  thought  ...  I  was  afraid  you  were  .  .  .  you 
wanted  .   .   ." 

"You  looked  at  me  as  though  you  hated  me,"  she 
said. 

He  comforted  her  in  silence  for  some  time  and  she 
clung  to  him.  Then  he  thought  he  heard  her  whisper- 
ing something.     "What  is  it?"  he  asked  gently. 

"I  am  so  afraid,  Jeremy,"  she  repeated,  in  a  voice 
that  was  still  almost  inaudible;  and  as  he  did  not 
answer  she  went  on  a  little  more  loudly,  "You  know, 
I  dreaded  something  .  .  .  this  afternoon  .  .  .  and  this 
must  be  it."  Still  he  said  nothing;  and  after  a  pause 
she  resumed :  "Nobody  but  you  can  save  us,  Jeremy. 
I  am  certain  of  it — you  are  so  wonderful,  you  know 
so  much  of  what  happened  in  the  old  times.  Weren't 
you  sent  here  by  the  Blessed  Virgin  to  save  us?  I 
know  why  you  don't  want  to — but  it  will  be  all  right. 
Oh,  Jeremy,  it  will !" 

A  great  wave  of  hopelessness  came  over  him  and, 
when  he  tried  to  speak,  choked  his  utterance.  He  could 
only  shake  his  head  miserably.  Suddenly  the  Lady 
Eva  let  fall  her  arms  from  his  neck  and  sank  down  in 
a  heap  on  the  chair.  He  realized  with  an  unbearable 
pang  that  she  was  sobbing  wildly. 

"Eva !  Eva !"  he  cried  hopelessly,  trying  to  gather 
her  to  him  again.  But  she  drew  herself  away  and 
continued  to  sob,  breathing  shortly  and  spasmodically. 
He  felt  afraid  of  her.  Then  she  rose  and  with  a  last 
jerky  sigh  gave  herself  into  his  arms.  He  felt  her 
body,  slight  and  yielding,  yet  strong  and  supple,  in  his 
embrace,  and  he  began  to  grow  dizzy.  Her  face  was 
wet  and  her  mouth  was  loose  and  hot  beneath  his. 


248      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

"Eva!"  he  murmured,  torn  and  wretched,  with  a 
sense  of  ineluctable  doom  stealing  upon  them.  He 
looked  up  over  her  head  and  saw  that  in  the  garden  the 
lawns  and  flowers  were  now  growing  distinct  in  a  hard, 
clear,  cold  light.  A  chilly  breath  came  in  at  the  win- 
dow, and  all  at  once  the  birds  began  drowsily  to  wake 
and  chatter.  Inside  the  room  all  the  candles  were 
out  but  one,  that  still  burnt  on,  though  sickly  and  near 
its  end.  The  light  seemed  to  Jeremy  to  be  coming 
as  fast  and  as  inevitably  as  the  surrender  which  he 
could  no  longer  escape.  "Don't,  dear,"  he  uttered 
hoarsely.  "DcHi't,  don't !  I'll  do  what  they  want  me 
to  do.    I'll  go  and  tell  your  father  now." 

She  hid  her  face  on  his  breast  and  for  a  little  while 
her  shoulders  still  heaved  irregularly  like  a  stormy 
sea  after  the  wind  has  fallen. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  FIELDS  OF  WINDSOR 


JEREMY  sat  with  the  Speaker  in  the  parlor  of  a 
rude  farmhouse  at  the  edge  of  the  Httle  village  of 
Slough.  It  was  now  a  week  since  the  army  had  taken 
the  field,  and  during  that  time  they  had  not  once  come 
to  grips  with  the  enemy.  The  President  of  Wales  had 
lingered  unaccountably  at  Oxford,  and  Jeremy  had 
pitched  his  camp  in  the  neighborhood  of  Windsor,  not 
daring  to  move  further  from  London.  He  could  not 
tell  whether  the  Welshmen  would  follow  the  windings 
of  the  north  bank  of  the  river  or  cross  at  Reading 
and  approach  the  capital  from  the  south,  or  march 
by  Thame  around  the  top  of  the  Chilterns.  The 
Speaker,  judging  the  enemy  by  his  own  strategical  no- 
tions, had  affirmed  that  they  would  advance  towards 
Windsor  if  they  supposed  that  battle  could  be  joined 
there;  and  he  wished  to  go  straight  on,  as  far  as  Ox- 
ford if  necessary.  But  Jeremy,  determined  to  be  in 
truth  what  the  old  man  had  forced  him  to  be,  refused 
to  move.  They  spent  a  weary  week  of  doubt  and 
anxiety,  receiving  every  day  a  dozen  contradictory 
reports,  and  occasionally  moving  out  the  troops  to  the 
west  or  the  north  on  a  wild-goose  chase. 

This  state  of  afifairs  told  heavily  on  them  both. 
Jeremy  ceased  to  be  able  to  sleep,  and  he  felt  inex- 

249 


250      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

pressibly  tired.  The  Speaker  grew  irritable  and  the 
ardor  of  his  spirit,  confined  by  delay,  daily  corroded 
his  temper.  The  Canadian,  who  attended  thein  faith- 
fully, never  refused  to  give  Jeremy  his  advice;  but 
he  never  suggested  less  than  two  possible  courses  of 
action,  and  he  never  failed  to  make  it  clear  that  either 
might  bring  success,  and  that  either  might  involve  com- 
plete disaster.  On  this  day  at  last  Jeremy's  patience 
had  worn  very  thin.  He  had  just  explained  to  the 
Speaker  for  the  twentieth  time  his  objection  to  mov- 
ing up  the  river  direct  on  Oxford,  and  a  dissatisfied 
silence  had  fallen  between  them.  Jeremy  sighed,  and 
let  his  hands  fall  on  the  table,  across  the  crude,  inac- 
curate maps  which  were  all  that  he  had  been  able  to 
obtain. 

The  dispute  between  them  had  grown  so  bitter  that 
he  felt  unwilling  to  encounter  the  Speaker's  gaze,  fear- 
ing lest  his  own  weariness  and  disgust  and  resentment 
should  show  too  obviously.  But  as  he  glanced  cau- 
tiously at  the  old  man  he  saw  that  he  was  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  closed  and  his  hands  folded 
in  his  lap.  In  this  attitude  of  rest  he  betrayed  himself 
more  tkan  was  common  with  him.  The  air  of  fire  and 
mastery  had  gone  out  of  his  face,  the  lines  of  power 
were  softened,  the  thick  lips,  instead  of  expressing 
pride  and  greed,  drooped  a  little  pathetically,  and 
showed  a  weary  resignation.  Not  only  his  features, 
but  also  the  thick-veined  old  hands,  seemed  to  have 
grown  thinner  and  frailer  than  they  were.  He  looked 
to  Jeremy  like  a  lamp  inside  which  the  flame  is  slowly 
and  quietly  dying.  Jeremy's  heart  suddenly  softened 
towards  him  and  he  felt  more  unbearable  than  ever 
the  fate  in  which  they  were  all  thus  entangled. 

But  his  tired  brain  refused  to  grapple  with  it  any 


THE  FIELDS  OF  WINDSOR        251 

more,  and  he  fell  to  making  pictures.  When  they  had 
marched  out  he  alone  in  the  whole  army  had  felt  de- 
spondent. The  people  of  London  wished  them  good 
luck  with  as  much  enthusiasm  as,  a  few  days  before, 
they  had  welcomed  them  home.  The  troops  marched 
off  down  Oxford  Street  and  along  the  winding  valley- 
road,  covered  again  with  flowers,  which  they  stuck  in 
their  hats  or  in  the  muzzles  of  their  rifles,  singing  odd 
uncouth  snatches  of  boasting  defiance  in  curious  ca- 
dences which  had  suddenly  sprung  up  among  them 
and  passed  rapidly  from  mouth  to  mouth.  Most  of 
these  praised  Jeremy  and  his  guns:  some  of  them  ex- 
alted him  as  a  necromancer  and  credited  him  with 
supernatural  powers.  Even  the  Speaker  chanted  one 
of  them  in  a  rumbling,  uncertain  bass,  somewhat  to 
Jeremy's  discomfort.  The  discomfort  was  greater 
when  Thomas  Wells  hummed  another  below  his  breath, 
with  a  satirical  grin  directed  at  the  horizon  before 
them. 

The  Lady  Eva  at  their  parting  shared  Jeremy's  dis- 
tress but  not  his  doubts.  They  had  a  few  moments 
alone  together  on  the  morning  of  setting  out,  before 
the  public  ceremony  at  which  she  and  the  Lady  Burney 
were  to  wish  the  army  God-speed.  She  clung  to  him 
speechlessly,  begging  him  with  her  eyes  and  her  kisses 
to  confess  that  he  looked  cheerfully  to  the  result. 
Jeremy,  shamefacedly  conscious  of  having  felt  some 
resentment  towards  her  since  he  had  yielded  to  her 
entreaties,  comforted  her  as  well  as  he  was  able,  and 
yet  could  not  bring  himself  to  say  what  she  wanted  to 
hear.  Their  short  time  ran  to  an  end :  the  minutes 
ticked  inexorably  away;  below  in  the  courtyard  he 
could  hear  the  servants  bringing  around  the  horses.  A 
dozen  times  his  mind  framed  a  pleasant  lie  for  her 


252      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

which  his  tongue  would  not  speak.  Then  they  parted 
with  this  between  them,  and  Jeremy  went  down  into 
the  courtyard  with  a  heavy  spirit.  A  few  minutes  later 
he  and  the  Speaker  and  Thomas  Wells  were  riding  up 
Whitehall  towards  Piccadilly,  the  Lady  Burney  and 
the  Lady  Eva  going  before  them  in  a  carriage.  There, 
on  the  spot  where  once  the  poised  Cupid  had  stood, 
the  Lady  Eva  kissed  him  again  before  the  cheering 
people,  and  the  army  set  out.  Jeremy  rode  dully  with 
it,  wishing  that  his  obstinate  fixity  in  his  own  opinion 
could  have  given  way  for  a  moment  and  let  him  part 
without  reserve  from  his  beloved.  He  wondered  much 
whether  he  would  ever  see  her  again,  and  the  thought 
was  exceedingly  bitter. 

Then  followed  this  week  of  confusion  and  wretch- 
edness, a  depressing  contrast  with  the  lightning  bril- 
liance of  the  campaign  against  the  Yorkshiremen. 
Jeremy's  resolution,  braced  for  a  swift  and  single  test 
of  it,  withstood  the  strain  hardly.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  the  moments  in  which  good  luck  might  carry 
him  through  were  fast  running  away ;  he  felt  them  like 
material  things  melting  out  of  his  hands.  Still  at 
Oxford,  the  President  maintained  his  enigmatical  im- 
mobility. Slowly  the  spirit  of  the  troops  faded  and 
withered,  like  the  trail  of  flowers  they  had  left  be- 
hind them  on  the  march.  Jeremy  perserved  the  stolid- 
ity of  his  expression,  grew  slower  of  speech  every  day, 
and  hid  the  bewildering  turmoil  of  his  thoughts.  Only 
the  Canadian  went  about  the  camp  with  an  unaltered 
cheerfulness  of  demeanor.  He  behaved  like  an  on- 
looker who  is  always  willing  to  do  what  he  can  when 
■the  players  of  the  game  invoke  his  help.  He  talked 
with  the  officers,  rode  out  often  in  front  of  the  lines, 
seemed  always  busy,  always  in  a  detached  manner  in- 


THE  FIELDS  OF  WINDSOR         253 

terested  in  what  was  going  on.    Jeremy  grew  to  hate 
him  as  much  as  he  feared  him  .  .  . 

"Jeremy!    Jeremy!" 

He  started  up  from  his  meditation  and  found  that 
the  old  man  was  speaking  to  him. 

"Listen!     Wasn't  that  firing  ...  a  long  way  off?" 

He  listened  intently,  then  shook  his  head.  "No, 
I'm  sure  it  wasn't." 

"Jeremy,  how  much  longer  is  it  going  to  be?" 

He  was  seized  with  surprise  at  the  piti  fulness  of 
the  Speaker's  tone.  "God  knows,  sir,"  he  answered 
slowly,  and  added  ip  an  exhausted  voice.  "We  haven't 
enough  men  to  go  on  adventures  and  force  the  busi- 
ness." 

"No  ...  no,  I  suppose  not."  And  then,  losing 
some  of  this  unusual  docility,  the  Speaker  burst  out: 
"I  am  sick  of  this  hole!" 

"Campaigning  quarters!"  Jeremy  replied  as  humor- 
ously and  soothingly  as  he  could.  He  was  sick  of 
it  himself.  The  Speaker  had  desired  that  they  should 
establish  themselves  in  Windsor  Castle;  but  much  of 
the  old  building  had  been  burnt  down  in  the  Troubles, 
and  what  was  left  had  been  used  as  a  quarry.  It  was 
not  possible  to  go  anywhere  in  the  neighborhood  with- 
out seeing  the  great  calcined  stones  built  into  the  walls 
of  house  or  barn.  Hardly  anything  of  the  Castle  was 
left  standing ;  and  the  poor  remains,  in  fact,  were  used 
as  a  common  cart-shed  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  vil- 
lage of  Windsor.  In  all  this  countryside,  which  was 
held  and  cultivated  by  small  men,  there  was  no  great 
house;  and  they  had  been  obliged  to  content  them- 
selves with  a  poor  hovel  of  a  farm,  which  had  only  one 
living-room  and  was  dirty  and  uncomfortable.  Jeremy 
grew  to  hate  it  and  the  wide  dusty  flats  in  which  it 


254      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

stood.  It  seemed  to  him  a  detestable  landscape,  and 
daily  the  scene  he  loathed  grew  intertwined  in  his 
thoughts  with  his  dread  of  the  future.  His  feverish 
brain  began  to  deal,  against  his  will,  in  foolish  omens 
and  premonitions.  He  caught  himself  wondering, 
"Will  this  be  the  last  I  shall  see  of  England?"  He 
remembered,  shuddering,  that  when  he  had  first  joined 
the  Army  in  1914  and  had  complained  of  early  morn- 
ing parades,  a  companion  had  said,  "I  suppose  we  shall 
have  to  get  up  at  this  time  every  morning  for  the  rest 
of  our  lives!" 

While  he  was  trying  to  drive  some  such  thoughts  as 
these  out  of  his  mind,  he  was  conscious  of  a  stir  out- 
side the  farmhouse,  and  presently  an  orderly  entered 
and  announced,  "A  scout  with  news,  sir." 

"Bring  him  in,"  said  Jeremy  wearily.  He  hardly 
glanced  up  at  the  trooper  who  entered,  until  the  man 
began  to  speak.  Then  the  tones  of  the  voice  caught 
his  attention  and  he  saw  with  surprise  that  it  was 
Roger  Vaile  who  stood  there,  his  head  roughly  band- 
aged; his  face  smeared  with  blood  and  dust,  his  uni- 
form torn  and  stained. 

"Roger!"  he  cried,  starting  up. 

Roger  hesitated.  The  Speaker,  who  was  leaning 
forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  face  between 
his  hands,  muttered  sharply,  "Go  on,  man,  go  on!" 

Roger  straightened  himself  a  little,  disregarded 
Jeremy's  outstretched  hand,  and  began  again.  "I  went 
out  alone,  sir,  three  days  ago,"  he  said,  looking  at 
neither  of  his  listeners,  "and  went  on  upstream  as  far 
as  a  place  called  Dorchester.  I  saw  a  patrol  of  the 
enemy  there  coming  out  of  the  village,  and  to  get 
away  from  them  I  had  to  leave  my  horse  and  swim 


THE  FIELDS  OF  WINDSOR         255 

across  the  river.  There's  a  hill  on  the  other  side  that 
you  can  see  the  road  from " 

"I  know  it!"  Jeremy  jerked  out.  "It's  called  Sino 
dun!"  The  mere  name  as  he  pronounced  it  almost 
took  his  breath  away.  How  well,  in  old  journeys  up 
the  river,  he  had  once  known  Sinodun ! 

*Ts  it?"  Roger  asked  indifferently.  *T  didn't  know. 
Well,  I  stayed  on  top  of  the  hill  under  a  bush  that 
night.  The  next  morning  about  eleven  I  saw  a  lot  of 
cavalry  coming  into  the  village  from  the  Oxford  road 
and  soon  after  that  infantry.  It  looked  to  me  like  the 
whole  of  the  President's  army.  There  must  have  been 
ten  or  twelve  thousand  men  altogether.  So  I  started 
off  to  come  back  as  fast  as  I  could.  I  had  some  diffi- 
culty because  when  I  got  across  the  river  again  at 
Wallingford  I  was  right  among  their  patrols,  and  I 
couldn't  get  away  from  them  till  they  camped  at  Mar- 
low  last  night." 

"At  Marlow !"  Jeremy  cried,  starting  up,  "Are  you 
quite  sure  the  whole  army  came  as  far  as  Marlow?" 

"Absolutely  sure,"  Roger  replied.  "I  was  hiding 
just  outside  the  village  while  they  pitched  their  camp." 

"Then  God  be  praised,"  Jeremy  breathed,  "they've 
come  past  Reading  and  they're  marching  straight  at 
us.  They  can't  cross  the  river  between  here  and 
there.  Ten  or  twelve  thousand,  you  say?  Then  we're 
about  equal  in  numbers  and  I  believe  we  shall  be  equal 
to  them  in  spirit — let  alone  the  guns.  And,  Roger," 
he  finished,  "are  you  hurt?" 

"Nothing  much — only  a  cut,"  Roger  assured  him 
with  his  gentle  smile.  "Luckily  I  ran  into  one  of  their 
scouts  and  got  his  horse  away  from  him — or  I  might 
not  have  been  here  so  soon." 

"Come,  Jeremy,"  growled  the  Speaker,  rising.  "The 


256      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

battle  is  on  us.  We  must  get  ready."  Jeremy  would 
have  stayed  to  speak  to  Roger  and  to  see  that  he  was. 
provided  with  food ;  but  the  old  man  was  insistent, 
and  he  found  himself  outside  the  house  before  he  could 
protest. 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  of  a  fine,  dry  day,  and  the 
variable  wind  was  blowing  clouds  of  dust  this  way 
and  that  over  the  flat  fields.  All  around  them  jtretched 
the  tents  of  the  encampment  in  slovenly,  irregular  lines; 
and  the  soldiers,  on  whom,  untrained  as  they  were,  the 
period  of  idleness  had  had  an  unlucky  effect,  were 
lounging  here  and  there  in  careless  groups.  Jeremy's 
attempt  to  make  use  of  this  week  in  drilling  them  had 
been  for  the  most  part  unsuccessful.  Officers  and  men 
alike  were  too  much  flushed  with  victory  foi»  his  orders 
or  appeals  to  have  any  effect.  They  were  riot  so  much 
impatient  of  discipline  as  negligent  of  it. 

Jeremy  sighed  a  little  as  he  looked  at  the  camp;  but 
his  spirits  immediately  revived.  The  Speaker  was  tak- 
ing short  steps  up  and  down,  rubbing  his  hands  to- 
gether and  lifting  up  his  nostrils  to  snuff  the  sweet, 
dry  air.  A  kind  of  exhilaration  seemed  to  fill  him 
and  to  restore  him  to  his  former  self,  Jeremy  caught 
it  from  him,  and  his  voice  was  lively  when  he  shouted 
to  a  servant  to  fetch  thithen  the  principal  officers. 

The  council  of  war  had  hardly  gathered  when  a  new 
report  came  that  the  enemy  were  marching  on  Hitch- 
am,  following  the  main  road  that  had  once;  crossed  the 
river  at  Maidenhead  and  now  came  around  by  the 
north  bank.  Jeremy's  plans  were  prepared,  and  he 
rapidly  disposed  his  army,  with  the  right  wing  resting 
on  the  slightly-rising  ground  of  Stoke  Park,  the  center 
running  through  Chalk  Hill  and  Chalvey,  and  the  left. 


THE  FIELDS  OF  WINDSOR        257 

guarding  the  bridge,  in  the  empty  fields  where  Eton 
once  had  been. 

As  he  gave  his  orders,  with  some  show  of  confidence 
and  readiness,  he  tasted  for  a  moment  the  glories  of  a 
commander-in-chief ;  but  when  he  detailed  to  Thomas 
Wells  hia  duties  as  the  leader  of  the  right  wing  of  the 
army,  his  heart  unreasonably  sank  and  he  faltered  over 
his  words. 

**I  understand,"  the  Canadian  replied  gravely,  with 
an  inscrutable  expression.  "I  am  to  stand  on  the  line 
between  Stoke  and  Salt  Hill  until  you  give  the  word. 
Then  you  will  send  up  the  reserves  and  I  am  to  ad- 
vance, wheel  around,  and  force  them  against  the 
river." 

"That's  it,"  said  Jeremy  with  a  heartiness  he  did  not 
feel. 

"So  be  it  .  .  .  sir,"  Thomas  Wells  assented  linger- 
ingly;  then,  with  an  air  of  hesitation,  he  murmured: 
"I  suppose  you're  quite  certain  .  .  .  that  they'll  mass 
against  our  left  .  .  .  that  they  won't  attack  me  and  try 
to  drive  ^us  into  the  river?" 

"I'll  take  the  chance,  anyway,"  Jeremy  answered 
stoutly ;  and,  nodding,  he  rode  off  to  look  at  the  guns, 
which  were  under  the  command  of  Jabez,  immediately 
behind  the  center  of  the  line. 

"We'll  do  them  in,  master,"  said  Jabez  reassuringly. 
"Never  you  fear.  You  leave  that  to  us."  As  he 
spoke  a  sharp  crackling  of  rifle  fire  arose  by  the  river*- 
bank  near  Queen's  Eyot. 

"Well,  we've  started,  Jabez,"  Jeremy  smiled  at  him. 
"I  must  go  back."  As  he  rode  again  towards  his 
chosen  point  for  directing  the  battle  his  breath  came 
regularly  and  his  heart  was  singularly  at  rest. 


258      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 


When  the  firing  spread  and  became  general  all  along 
the  line,  showing  that  battle  had  actually  been  joined, 
Jeremy  began  to  feel  a  little  light-headed  with  ex- 
citement. He  stood,  with  the  Speaker  and  two  or 
three  officers,  on  the  western  edge  of  the  slight  rise  on 
which  the  village  lay;  and  from  this  point  of 
vantage  he  could  see  that  the  outposts  were  being 
rapidly  driven  in  from  Domey  and  Cippenham 
upon  the  main  line  of  defense.  In  the  center  the 
enemy  seemed  to  be  pressing  towards  the  Beacons- 
field  road.  On  the  right,  where  Thomas  Wells 
was  in  charge,  the  firing  was  furious,  and  great 
clouds  of  smoke  were  drifting  away  among  the  trees 
of  Stoke  Park ;  but  the  attack  had  not  the  air  of  being 
seriously  driven  home.  Jeremy  regarded  it  for  a  few 
moments,  biting  his  lip  and  screwing  up  his  eyes,  and 
then  turned  from  it  to  scan  with  particular  anxiety  the 
flats  on  the  right  between  Boveney  and  Eton  Wick. 
Here  it  was,  he  hoped,  that  the  enemy  would  concen- 
trate his  troops.  Here,  with  luck,  his  masses  might 
be  caught  in  the  open  and  broken  up  by  the.  guns, 
while  the  Speaker's  men  remained  safe  in  cover  behind 
the  ruins  of  the  viaduct. 

In  spite  of  his  doubts  and  the  frequent  monitions  of 
his  judgment  Jeremy  retained  somewhere  in  his  mind 
an  obscure  belief  that  the  fear  of  the  guns  would,  after 
all,  hold  the  Welshmen  in  check  and  enfeeble  their 
advance.  All  the  time,  as  he  stood  beside  the  Speaker, 
something  was  drawing  him  towards  the  shallow  gun- 
pit  which  he  had  established,  close  to  the  line,  between 
Chalvey  and  the  old  disused  railway-cutting.    But  the 


THE  FIELDS  OF  WINDSOR         259 

hugeness  of  the  moment,  the  release  of  his  tension,  and 
the  incessant  rattling  outbursts  of  noise  combined  in 
an  odd  way  to  exhilarate  him.  He  grew  so  restless 
that  at  last,  with  a  muttered  excuse  to  the  Speaker, 
he  mounted  his  horse  and  trotted  off  to  look  at  the 
guns. 

He  found  Jabez  and  his  ancients  standing  in  a 
strained  attitude  of  readiness.  Their  faces  were  ab- 
surdly grave,  and  Jabez  greeted  him  with  what  he 
thought  a  ludicrous  solemnity.  He  rallied  the  with- 
ered old  creature,  with  exaggerated  heartiness,  on  his 
anxious  air. 

*'Let  'em  come,  master!"  Jabez  replied  with  a  menac- 
ing expression,  "and  we'll  see  to  'em.  Let  'em  just 
put  their  heads  out " 

Jeremy  laughed  loudly  at  this,  clapped  Jabez  on  the 
back,  and  directed  his  tattered  opera-glasses  towards 
the  little  church  of  Boveney.  But  no  considerable 
body  of  troops  answered  the  invitation.  Still  restless, 
Jeremy  rode  back  to  his  headquarters. 

He  found  that  the  Speaker  had  given  orders  for  his 
armchair  to  be  brought  out  for  him  from  the  farm- 
house, and  he  was  sitting  in  it,  his  elbow  on  the  arm 
and  his  chin  in  his  hand,  regarding  the  unshifting  line 
of  smoke  with  an  immobile  but  somber  countenance. 
Like  Xerxes,  Jeremy  suddenly  thought,  with  a  shiver 
for  the  omen,  over  the  bay  of  Salamis ! 

"You  are  trembling,"  the  old  man  said,  without 
looking  around,  as  Jeremy  reached  him. 

"I'm  excited,"  Jeremy  explained.  "It's  all  right. 
I'm  quite  cool."  He  was  indeed  so  cool  that  he  could 
sit  down  on  the  dry,  short  grass  beside  the  Speaker, 
light  a  cigar,  and  consider  quite  calmly  what  course 
of  action  he  ought  to  take.    The  only  thing  he  found 


26o      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

lacking  was  an  indication  of  any  one  course  as  better 
than  another.  The  enemy  might  be,  and  very  Hkely 
was,  conceaHng  troops  among  the  houses  of  Boveney, 
Dorney,  and  Cippenham — it  was  impossible  to  tell 
which.  The  battle  seemed  to  be  hung  in  a  state  of 
miraculous  suspension.  The  enemy's  advance  had 
been  brought  to  a  standstill,  and  neither  of  the  lines 
moved  or  wavered.  From  the  bank  of  the  river  to 
Stoke  Place  there  stretched  a  thick  woolly  bar  of 
smoke  as  though  a  giant  hand  had  smudged  ink  with 
its  thumb  across  the  landscape.  Jeremy  searched  vainly 
through  the  whole  of  the  country  before  him  for  some 
mark,  on  which  the  guns  might  expend  their  few 
shells,  and  especially  for  the  Welsh  transport;  but  he 
could  find  nothing.  It  was  only  as  the  minutes  drifted 
by  and  the  fighting  continued  that  Jeremy  began  to 
realize  his  own  vagueness  and  impotence,  to  understand 
that,  in  spite  of  his  protestations,  he  had  been  relying 
hopelessly  on  some  such  stroke  of  luck  as  had  served 
him  at  Barnet. 

The  first  half -conscious  realization  was  like  a  cold 
draught,  an  imperceptible  movement  of  chilly  air,  blow- 
ing upon  his  resolution  and  high  spirits.  In  a  mo- 
ment full  comprehension  followed  and  gripped  him, 
and  he  awoke  as  though  out  of  a  dream,  alive  to  the 
danger  and  yet  incapable  of  action.  Nothing  had 
changed :  the  line  of  smoke  was  as  before,  the  sounds 
of  the  fighting  had  grown  not  louder  or  more  terrible. 
But  what  had  been  to  Jeremy  a  picture  had  become  a 
real  thing,  a  vast  and  menacing  event,  in  the  path  of 
which  he  was  an  insignificant  insect.  Not  a  muscle  of 
his  face  stirred  under  the  shock.  The  Speaker,  above 
him,  mumbled  deeply : 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Jeremy?" 


THE  FIELDS  OF  WINDSOR         261 

"We  must  wait  a  little,  sir,"  Jeremy  answered  con- 
fidently, but  with  a  trace  of  impatience  in  his  voice. 
He  wanted  desperately  to  gain  time.  Under  his  mask 
he  felt  like  a  man  who  is  about  to  be  detected  in  an 
imposture,  whom  the  turning  of  the  next  page  will 
bring  to  utter  ruin.  He  gazed  here  and  there  over 
the  field,  wondering  how  long  he  could  control  his 
expression.  Perhaps  the  next  minute  his  muscles 
would  betray  him  and  he  would  burst  into  tears.  But 
suddenly  the  seizure  was  relaxed  and  he  rose  with  a 
jerk  to  his  feet. 

"Time  to  bring  the  guns  in,"  he  exclaimed  with  an 
air  of  authority  which  surprised  himself.  As  he  can- 
tered down  the  slope  one  voice  was  whispering  in  his 
ear :  "Throw  your  hand  down !  Confess  that  you're 
stuck,"  and  another  was  answering,  "You  can't  do 
that.     One  doesn't  do  that  sort  of  thing!" 

In  the  gun-pit  he  was  greeted  this  time  with  en- 
thusiasm, and  Jabez  accepted  delightedly  the  order 
to  drop  a  couple  of  shells  on  Dorney  and  see  what 
would  happen.  The  first  shell  did  not  explode.  The 
second  burst  clean  in  the  middle  of  the  village,  and, 
though  they  could  not  see  that  it  had  discovered  a 
concentration,  it  seemed  to  have  acted  as  a  cue  for  the 
climax  of  the  battle.  The  rifle-fire  on  the  river-bank 
doubled  in  volume,  and  a  line  of  black  dots  appeared 
out  of  Boveney,  rushed  forward,  and  was  succeeded 
by  another  wave.  But  by  the  time  the  guns  were 
trained  in  that  direction  the  movement  had  ceased, 
and  two  or  three  shells  thrown  into  the  houses  whence 
it  had  come  produced  no  visible  effect.  Jeremy  or- 
dered the  guns  to  cease  firing. 

On  the  right  the  noise  of  the  combat  had  suddenly 
grown  irregular  and  spasmodic.    Jeremy  was  puzzled 


262      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

and  worried,  and  racked  his  sluggish  brain  to  guess 
what  this  might  portend.  Was  it  the  moment  to  order 
Thomas  Wells  to  advance  the  right  wing  and  begin 
the  encircling  movement?  He  had  had  no  messenger 
nor  any  news  from  the  Canadian  since  the  battle  had 
begun.  His  plan  now  seemed  to  him  at  once  wooden 
and  fantastic,  drawn  up  by  an  amateur  on  the  map, 
dependent  on  an  accommodating  enemy.  Should  he 
wait  a  little  longer  until  the  Welsh  army  had  shown 
its  hand  more  plainly?  In  his  agony  of  indecision  he 
gripped  the  gun-wheel  at  his  side,  as  though  he  had 
been  in  need  of  physical  support.  If  he  had  been  left 
to  himself  he  would  have  collapsed  on  the  trodden 
earth  of  the  pit  and  let  the  battle  and  the  fortunes  of 
the  world  roll  over  him  as  they  would.  He  felt  him- 
self a  poor  waif  beaten  down  by  circumstance,  a  child 
called  on  to  carry  an  unsupportable  load.  Only  some 
kind  of  irrational  obstinacy,  a  sort  of  momentum  of 
the  spirit,  kept  him  upright.  But  things,  both  mental 
and  physical,  began  to  be  blurred  and  to  lose  their 
outlines,  and  anxiety  shed  on  him  a  sort  of  intoxication. 

When  he  moved  away  towards  his  horse  he  was 
swaying  in  his  walk  and  preserving  his  balance  with  the 
solemn  care  of  drunkenness. 

"Fire — fire  on  any  advance  you  see!"  he  said  un- 
steadily to  Jabez,  and  he  thought  the  old  gunner  looked 
at  him  queerly  as  he  touched  his  hat  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  order. 

"I've  lost  control  of  myself,"  Jeremy  muttered  under 
his  breath,  very  seriously  and  carefully,  as  he  rode 
back  to  rejoin  the  Speaker.  "I've  lost  control  of  my- 
self ...  I  must  be  calm  .  ,  .  I've  lost  control  of 
myself  ...  I  must  .  .  ."  Nothing  more  seemed  to 
matter  but  this :  the  battle  came  second  to  the  struggle 


THE  FIELDS  OF  WINDSOR         263 

between  his  will  and  his  nerves.  He  thought  hazily 
that  by  one  prodigious  effort  he  might  clear  his  brain 
again  and  see  an  answer  to  questions  which  now  looked 
insoluble.  He  mechanically  urged  his  horse  up  the 
rise;  but  the  beast,  fat,  lazy,  and  sulky,  did  not  re- 
spond, and  Jeremy  forgot  it.  When  he  dismounted 
he  saw  the  old  man  still  motionless  in  his  chair  gazing 
across  the  field,  while  behind  him  were  the  attendants, 
motionless,  too,  as  though  what  was  going  on  did  not 
at  all  concern  them.  Jeremy  half  glanced  at  these  men, 
and  thought  that  they  whispered  to  one  another  as  he 
passed.  He  went  on  and  stood  silently  beside  the 
Speaker's  chair.  His  lips  were  still  moving  as  he 
muttered  to  himself,  and  some  moments  passed  before 
he  became  aware  that  the  old  man  had  turned  and 
was  looking  up  at  him  dubiously. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  began ;  and  then  suddenly  a  bullet 
whistled  past  their  heads.  It  was  as  though  the  shrill 
sound  had  cleared  away  a  thickening  fog. 

"Come  out  of  this,  sir,"  Jeremy  cried  violently. 
"They're  too  close.  Some  of  them  must  have  got  into 
Chalk  Hill.  It's  not  safe  for  you  up  here."  As  he 
cried  out,  clutching  at  the  Speaker  with  a  convulsive 
hand,  his  self-possession  and  his  resolution  returned, 
and  in  that  fraction  of  an  instant  he  began  to  survey 
the  field  again  with  a  new  eye.  The  reserves  were  be- 
hind him  in  the  village  of  Slough.  He  would  bring 
them  up,  on  the  right,  and  make  his  push  forward 
while  the  guns  fired  over  the  heads  of  the  attacking 
wing.  All  these  thoughts  passed,  sharp  and  distinct, 
through  his  mind,  while  he  was  frantically  endeavor- 
ing to  drag  the  Speaker  into  safety.  But  the  old  man 
resisted,  foolishly  obstinate  it  seemed  to  Jeremy,  with- 
out giving  any  reason  for  doing  so.     He  was  staring 


264      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

open-mouthed  towards  the  right  flank  of  the  army 
towards  Stoke  Park,  and  his  face  was  contorted, 
cnmibling,  ravaged  by  the  effects  of  astonishment  and 
horror.  It  was  a  grotesque  face,  not  that  of  an  old 
man  but  of  a  man  incredibly  ancient :  it  might  have 
been  a  thousand  years  old. 

Jeremy  ceased  the  effort  to  pull  him  away  and  fol- 
lowed with  his  eyes  the  direction  of  the  extended, 
helplessly  shaking  finger.  There,  on  the  right,  all  fir- 
ing had  stopped,  and  the  last  clouds  of  smoke  were 
drifting  heavily  to  the  north,  leaving  the  fields  quite 
clear.  It  took  Jeremy  a  moment  to  realize  what  it 
was  that  he  saw.  Then  he  understood  that,  between 
the  railway  and  the  woods,  the  opposing  forces  had 
left  their  shelter  in  ditches  and  behind  hedges  and 
were  mixing  together,  running,  it  seemed,  in  groups 
across  the  intervening  meadows  to  unite.  And  among 
the  moving  crowds  little  rags  of  white  danced  and 
fluttered  up  and  down. 

"What!"  he  cried  stupidly.  "They  can't  have  sur- 
rendered ?" 

"No !"  the  Speaker  wailed  in  a  thin  and  inhuman 
.voice.  "No !  Those  white  flags  are  ours :  I  saw  them 
raised.  Thomas  Wells  has  betrayed  us.  He  has  sold 
us  to  the  Welsh."  He  let  his  arms  fall  by  his  sides 
and  stood  there  limp,  lax,  shrunken,  hopeless. 

"It  can't  be "    But  as  Jeremy  began  to  speak  he 

saw  the  masses  swarming  in  the  meadows  turn  and 
move  tumultuously  towards  them,  cheering  and  waving 
their  rifles  in  the  air.  He  leapt  to  the  emergency. 
"Come  on  down!"  he  shouted  hoarsely.  "We'll  turn 
the  guns  on  them!     Come  on  to  the  guns!" 

As  they  ran  to  their  horses,  Jeremy  dragging  the 
spent  and  stumbling  Speaker  after  him,  the  firing  on 


THE  FIELDS  OF  WINDSOR         265 

the  river-bank  rose  sharply  to  a  crescendo,  and  Jeremy- 
guessed  that  a  final  attack  was  being  made  there.  But 
he  disregarded  it,  shoved  the  unresisting  body  of  the  old 
man  into  the  saddle  of  one  horse,  leapt  on  tO'  another 
himself,  and  galloped  heavily  down  the  slope  to  the 
battery.  He  found  Jabez  and  his  men  working  like 
demons,  their  faces  black  from  the  powder,  bleared 
and  puddled  with  sweat.  They  were  firing  in  the  di- 
rection of  Boveney,  and  staring  at  the  spot  where  their 
shells  were  bursting,  he  saw  a  regiment  advancing  to 
the  attack  of  the  village.  They  must  have  crept  up 
in  small  parties  and  taken  shelter  in  the  houses.  Now 
the  rifle  fire  against  them  was  weak  and  hesitating,  and 
the  guns,  soon  worn  out,  were  shooting  inaccurately 
and  could  not  score  a  hit. 

Jeremy  abandoned  that  disaster.  "Turn — turn  them 
to  the  right!"  he  stuttered  fiercely;  but  Jabez,  with  a 
blank  look  of  incomprehension,  pointed  to  his  ears  to 
signify  that  the  noise  had  deafened  him.  Jeremy 
made  him  understand  by  gestures  what  he  wanted,  but 
knew  not  how  to  tell  him  the  reason.  The  guns  were 
only  just  shifted  when  the  mixed  mob  of  soldiers, 
Welshmen  and  Speaker's  men  together,  came  pouring 
over  the  edge  of  the  low  hill. 

"Fire  on  them !"  he  bawled  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 
Jabez  trained  one  gun,  quietly  and  coolly,  on  the  ad- 
vancing mass,  while  Jeremy  trained  the  other.  When 
they  fired,  the  shells  went  over  the  leading  ranks  and 
burst  beyond  the  hill.  Shouts  of  anger  were  mixed 
with  yells  of  pain,  and  after  wavering  for  a  moment  the 
mob  came  on  again.  With  no  more  concern  than  if 
they  had  been  at  the  lathes  in  the  workshop,  with  the 
same  awkward  antic  gestures,  the  devoted  old  gunners 
loaded  once  more;  but  they  had   hardly  closed  the 


266      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

breeches  when  the  first  wave  was  upon  them.  Jeremy 
desperately  snatched  at  the  lanyard  of  his  gun,  and, 
as  he  did  so,  saw  fleetingly  the  Speaker  beside  him, 
arms  folded,  shoulders  sagging,  head  apathetically 
bowed.  He  pulled,  and,  with  the  crash,  the  nearest 
assailants  vanished  in  a  yellow,  reeking  cloud.  The 
next  thing  Jeremy  knew  was  that  a  breaker  of  human 
bodies  had  surged  over  the  edge  of  the  shallow  pit 
and  had  fallen  on  him.  He  saw  Jabez  sinking  gro- 
tesquely forward  upon  the  pike  that  killed  him,  saw 
the  still  unstirring  Speaker  thrown  down  by  a  reeling 
man.  Then  he  was  on  the  ground,  the  lowest  of  a 
mass  of  struggHng  creatures,  and  some  one,  by  kicking 
him  painfully  in  the  ear,  had  destroyed  his  transient 
sense  of  a  pathetic  end  to  a  noble  tragedy.  He  struck 
out  wildly,  but  his  arms  and  legs  were  held,  and  the 
struggle  grew  fiercer  above  him,  choking  him,  weigh- 
ing on  his  chest.  Slowly,  intolerably  slowly  and  pain- 
fully, darkness  descended  about  him.  His  last  thought 
was  a  surprised,  childish  exclamation  of  the  mind, 
*'Why,  this  must  be  death.  .  , ." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

CHAOS 


THE  awaking  was  sudden  and  disconcerting.  With- 
out any  interval,  it  seemed,  Jeremy  found  him- 
self staring  up  at  the  blinding  sky,  which  looked  al- 
most white  with  the  dry  heat,  and  suffering  miserably 
from  an  intolerable  weight  on  his  throat.  This,  he 
soon  perceived,  was  caused  by  the  legs  of  a  dead  man, 
and  after  a  moment  he  threw  them  off  and  sat  up, 
licking  dry  lips  with  a  dry  tongue.  His  ears  still  sang 
a  little  and  he  felt  sick;  but  his  head  was  clear,  if  his 
mind  was  still  feeble.  A  minute's  reflection  restored 
to  him  all  that  had  happened,  and  he  looked  around 
him  with  slightly  greater  interest. 

He  alone  in  the  gun-pit  seemed  to  be  alive,  though 
bodies  sprawled  everywhere  in  twisted  and  horrible 
attitudes.  A  few  yards  away  lay  Jabez,  stabl^ed  and 
dead,  clinging  round  the  trail  of  a  gun,  his  nutcracker 
face  grinning  fixedly  in  a  hideous  counterfeit  of  life. 
Jeremy  was  unmoved  and  let  his  eyes  travel  vaguely 
further.  He  was  very  thirsty  and  wanted  water  badly. 
But  apart  from  this  desire  he  was  little  stirred  to  take 
up  the  task  of  living  again.  What  he  most  wanted, 
on  the  whole,  was  to  lie  down  where  he  was  and 
doze,  to  let  things  happen  as  they  would.  The  muscles 
of  his  back  involuntarily  relaxed  and  he  subsided  on 

267 


268      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

to  one  ellx>w,  yawning  with  a  faint  shudder.  Then 
he  reahzed  that  he  would  not  be  comfortable  until 
he  had  drunk ;  and  he  rose  stiffly  to  his  feet.  Close  by 
the  wheel  of  one  of  the  guns,  just  inside  it,  stood  an 
open  earthenware  jar  half  full  of  water,  miraculously 
untouched  by  the  tumult  that  had  raged  in  the  battery. 
Jeremy  did  not  know  for  what  purpose  the  gunners 
had  used  it,  and  found  it  blackened  with  powder  and 
tainted  with  oil;  but  it  served  to  quench  his  thirst.  He 
drank  deeply  and  then  again  examined  the  scene  of 
quiet  desolation. 

One  by  one  he  identified  the  bodies  of  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  gun-crews:  none  had  escaped.  Some  had 
been  bayonetted,  some  clubbed,  some  strangled  or  suf- 
focated under  the  weight  of  their  assailants.  The 
feeble  lives  of  a  few,  perhaps,  had  merely  flickered  out 
before  the  terror  of  the  onset.  Jeremy  mused  idly  on 
the  fact  that  all  these  ancients,  who,  if  ever  man  did, 
deserved  a  quiet  death,  should  have  perished  thus  vio- 
lently together,  contending  with  a  younger  generation. 
He  wondered  if  they  would  be  the  last  gunners  the 
world  was  to  see.  He  found  it  odd  that  he,  the  oldest 
of  all,  should  be  the  last  to  survive.  He  felt  again 
the  loneliness  that  had  overtaken  him — how  long  ago? 
— in  the  empty  Whitechapel  Meadows,  when  once  be- 
fore he  had  emerged  from  darkness.  But  now  he 
suffered  neither  bewilderment  nor  despair.  It  was 
thus  that  fate  was  accustomed  to  deal  with  him,  and 
something  had  destroyed  or  deadened  the  human  nerve 
that  rebels  against  an  evil  fate. 

He  sank  on  to  the  ground  in  a  squatting  position, 
propped  his  back  against  a  wheel  of  the  nearer  gun 
and  rested  his  chin  on  his  hands,  speculating,  as  though 
on  something  infinitely  remote,  on  the  causes  and  cir- 


CHAOS  269 

cumstances  of  his  ruin.  Thomas  Wells,  he  supposed, 
had,  in  fact,  sold  them  to  the  President  of  Wales,  had 
very  likely  been  corrupting  the  army  for  days  before 
the  battle.  By  that  treachery  the  campaign  was  ir- 
revocably lost  and,  Jeremy  told  himself  calmly,  the 
whole  kingdom  as  well.  There  was  no  army  between 
this  and  London,  nor  could  any  now  be  raised  in  the 
south.  England  was  at  the  mercy  of  the  invaders, 
and  the  reign  of  the  Speakers  was  for  ever  finished. 
It  was  over,  Jeremy  murmured,  with  the  death  of  their 
last  descendant — for  he  took  it  for  granted  that  the 
old  man  had  been  killed. 

And  then  a  sudden  inexplicable  wave  of  anger  and 
foreboding  came  over  him,  as  though  the  deadened 
nerve  had  begun  to  stir  again  and  had  waked  him  from 
this  unnatural  indifference.  He  scrambled  to  his  feet 
and  stared  wildly  in  the  direction  of  London.  He  must 
go  there  and  find  the  Lady  Eva.  He  found  that  he 
still  desired  to  live. 

With  the  new  desire  came  activity  of  body  and 
mind.  He  must  travel  as  fast  as  he  could,  making 
his  way  through  the  ranks  of  the  invaders  and  more 
quickly  than  they,  and  to  do  this  with  any  chance  of 
success  he  needed  weapons.  He  would  trust  to  luck  to 
provide  him  with  a  horse  later  on.  His  own  pistols 
had  disappeared,  but  he  began  a  determined  and  cal- 
lous search  among  the  dead.  As  he  hunted  here  and 
there  his  glance  was  attracted  by  something  white  and 
trailing  in  the  heap  of  bodies  which  lay  between  the 
wheels  of  the  other  gun.  He  realized  with  a  shock 
that  it  was  the  Speaker's  long  beard,  somehow  caught 
up  between  two  corpses  which  hid  the  rest  of  him. 
He  looked  at  it  and  hesitated.  Then,  muttering,  "Poor 
old  chap!"  he  interrupted  his  search  to  show  his  late 


270      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

master  what  respect  he  could  by  composing  his  dead 
limbs.  But  as  he  pulled  the  old  man's  body  free,  the 
heavy,  pouched  eyelids  flickered,  the  black  lips  parted 
and  emitted  a  faint  sigh.  In  an  instant  Jeremy  had 
fetched  the  jar  of  water,  and  after  sucking  at  it  lan- 
guidly like  a  sick  child,  the  Speaker  murmured  some- 
thing that  Jeremy  could  not  catch. 

"Don't  try  to  talk,"  he  warned.  "Be  quiet  for  a 
moment." 

"Is  it  all  over?"  the  Speaker  repeated  in  a  distinct 
but  toneless  voice. 

"All  over,"  Jeremy  told  him;  and  in  his  own  ears 
the  words  rang  like  two  strokes  of  a  resonant  and 
mournful  bell. 

"Then  why  are  we  here?" 

Jeremy  explained  what  had  happened,  and  while  he 
told  the  story  the  Speaker  appeared,  without  moving, 
slowly  to  recover  full  consciousness.  When  it  was 
done  he  tried  to  stand  up.  Jeremy  helped  him  and 
steadied  him  when  he  was  erect. 

"It  is  all  over,"  he  pronounced  in  the  same  unwav- 
ering voice.  Then  he  added  with  childish  simplicity, 
**What  shall  we  do  now  ?" 

"Get  away  from  here,"  Jeremy  cried  with  a  sudden 
access  of  terror.  "Thomas  Wells  will  want  to  make 
sure  we  are  dead,  and  this  is  just  where  he  will  look 
for  us — he  may  come  back  any  minute!  And  we 
mustn't  be  caught ;  we  must  get  to  London,  to  help  the 
Lady  Eva!" 

"Get  away  from  here.  Very  well,  I  am  ready."  And 
with  a  slow  unsteady  movement  the  Speaker  began  to 
pick  his  way  across  the  battery,  lurching  a  little  when 
he  turned  aside  to  avoid  a  body  lying  at  his  feet. 
Jeremy  ran  after  him  and  offered  his  arm,  which  the 


CHAOS  271 

old  man  docilely  accq)ted.  When  they  had  climbed 
out  of  the  pit  they  saw  that  not  only  the  village  of 
Slough  was  burning,  but  also  that  every  building  for 
miles  around  seemed  to  have  been  fired.  On  the  main 
road,  away  to  their  left,  Jeremy  distinguished  a  long 
column  of  wagons  and  mounted  men  on  the  march, 
accompanied  by  irregular  and  straggling  crowds — the 
transport  and  the  camp-followers,  he  surmised.  But 
already  most  of  the  invaders  were  far  ahead,  making 
for  London  and,  eager  for  that  rich  prize,  not  staying 
to  loot  the  poor  farmhouses,  the  smoke  of  which  in- 
dicated their  advance. 

Jeremy  turned  and  looked  at  his  companion.  The 
old  Jew  had  paused  without  a  word  when  Jeremy 
paused  and  stood  v/aiting  patiently  for  the  order  to 
move  again.  A  sort  of  enduring  tranquillity  had  de- 
scended like  a  thin  mask  on  the  savage  power  of  his 
face,  softening  all  its  features  without  concealing  them. 
His  eyes  shone  softly  with  a  peaceful  and  unnatural 
light.  He  stared  fixedly  straight  before  him,  and  what 
he  saw  moved  him  neither  to  speech  nor  to  a  change 
of  expression.  Jeremy  regarded  him  with  doubt, 
which  deepened  into  fear.  This  passivity  in  one  who 
had  been  so  vehement  had  about  it  something  alarm- 
ing.    The  old  man  must  have  gone  mad. 

Jeremy  shuddered  at  the  suggestion.  His  thoughts 
suddenly  became  unrestrained,  ridiculous,  inconsequent. 
It  was  wicked  to  have  led  them  into  this  misery  and 
then  to  avoid  reproach  by  losing  his  reason!  How 
was  he  to  get  a  madman  over  the  difficult  road  to  Lon- 
don? He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  deserted  in  a  hostile 
country  with  no  companion  but  a  hideous,  an  irritating 
monstrosity.  .  .  .  That  fixed,  gentle  smile  began  to 
work  on  his  nerves  and  to  enrage  him.    It  was  a  sym- 


272      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

bol  of  an  unreasonable  and  pitiless  world,  where  the 
sun  shone  and  the  birds  sang,  and  which  yet  turned 
wantonly  to  blast  his  most  beautiful  hopes.  He  cursed 
at  the  old  man,  cried,  "It  was  all  your  fault,  this!" 

madly  raised  his  hand  to  strike But  the  Speaker 

turned  on  him  with  a  regard  so  quiet  and  so  melancholy 
that  he  drew  back  in  horror  from  his  own  intention. 
"Come  on,  sir,"  he  said  with  hoarse  tenderness. 
"Give  me  your  arm.  We  must  keep  to  the  right,  well 
away  from  the  road.     We'll  get  through  somehow." 


Darkness  was  fast  thickening  in  the  air  when  Jeremy 
and  the  Speaker  at  last  reached  the  western  edge  of 
London.  During  that  tortuous  and  incredible  journey 
the  old  man  had  not  more  than  once  or  twice  been 
shaken  out  of  his  smiling  calm.  He  had  walked  or 
ridden,  stood  motionless  as  a  stone  by  the  roadside 
or  crouched  in  hiding  in  the  ditch,  as  Jeremy  bade  him, 
obedient  in  all  things,  impassive,  apparently  without 
will  or  desire  of  his  own.  Jeremy  bore  for  them  both 
the  burden  of  their  dangers  and  their  escape,  planned 
and  acted  and  dragged  his  companion  after  him,  as- 
tonishing himself  by  his  inexhaustible  reserve  of  vi- 
tality and  resolution.  Or,  rather,  he  did  none  of  these 
things,  but  some  intelligence  not  his  own  reigned  in 
his  mind,  looked  ahead,  judged  coolly,  decided,  and 
drove  his  flagging  body  to  the  last  limits  of  fatigue. 
An  ancient  instinct  woke  in  the  depths  of  his  nature 
and  took  the  reins.  He  was  not  at  all  a  man,  a  lover, 
Jeremy  Tuft,  scientist,  gunner,  revenant,  struggling, 
by  means  of  such  knowledge  and  gifts  as  his  years  of 
jConscious  life  had  bestowed  on  him,  across  difficult 


CHAOS  273 

obstacles  to  reach  a  desired  goal.  He  was  a  blind 
activity,  a  force  governed  by  some  obscure  tropism; 
the  end  called,  and  like  an  insect  or  a  migrating  bird 
he  must  go  to  it,  whether  he  would  or  not,  whatever 
might  stand  in  the  way. 

Once,  when  they  almost  stumbled  on  a  ranging 
party  of  the  President's  horsemen,  Jeremy  pulled  the 
Speaker  roughly  after  him  into  a  pond  and  found  a 
hiding-place  for  them  both  among  the  thick  boughs 
of  an  overhanging  tree.  When  the  old  man  felt  the 
water  rising  coldly  to  his  armpits  he  uttered  a  single 
faint  cry  of  distress  or  despair,  and  Jeremy  scanned 
him  keenly,  wondering  whether  perhaps  it  would  not 
be  better  to  desert  that  outworn  body  and  altered  brain 
as  too  much  encumbrance  on  his  flight.  Afterwards, 
when  the  danger  had  gone  by  and  it  was  time  to  emerge, 
they  found  that  they  had  sunk  deep  in  the  mud. 
Jeremy's  expression  did  not  change  or  his  heart  beat 
a  stroke  the  faster  during  the  three  or  four  minutes 
in  which  he  struggled  to  draw  himself  up  into  the  tree. 
Then  he  gazed  down  pitilessly  on  his  companion,  con- 
sidering; but,  seeing  no  signs  of  agitation  or  indocility 
on  that  dumb  immobile  mask,  at  last  after  much  effort 
he  drew  him  out. 

Once  they  came  sharply  around  a  corner  and  saw 
ahead  of  them  one  of  the  Welsh  troopers  leading  a 
riderless  horse.  It  was  too  late  to  look  for  cover  or 
to  escape,  and  Jeremy,  halting  the  Speaker  by  a  rude 
jerk  of  his  arm,  went  forward  with  an  air  of  calm. 
As  he  came  closer  he  cried  out  to  the  soldier  in  a  rasp- 
ingly  authoritative  voice :  *T  am  looking  for  Thomas 
Wells.    You  must  lead  me  to  Thomas  Wells  at  once." 

The  man,  dark,  squat,  low-browed  and  brutish, 
paused  and  hesitated.     He  was  puzzled  by  the  imfa- 


274      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

miliar  speech  of  the  eastern  counties  and  was  ignorant 
whether  this  might  not  be  one  of  the  deserters  from 
the  Speaker's  army  whom  he  ought  to  receive  as  a 
comrade.  His  uncertainty  lasted  long  enough  for 
Jeremy  to  come  close  to  him,  to  produce  a  bayonet 
taken  from  one  of  the  dead,  and  to  drive  it  with  a 
single  unfaltering  movement  into  his  heart.  He  toppled 
off  the  horse  without  a  sound,  leaving  one  foot  caught 
in  the  stirrup.  Jeremy  disentangled  it,  took  the  man's 
pistol  and  cloak,  and  rolled  the  body  into  the  ditch, 
where  he  put  a  couple  of  dry  branches  over  it.  Then 
he  beckoned  to  the  Speaker  to  come  up  and  mount. 
Thereafter  they  traveled  more  rapidly. 

They  had  gone  by  such  by-ways  as  to  avoid  for  the 
most  part  the  main  track  of  the  invading  army,  but 
they  saw  bands  of  marauders  here  and  there  and  more 
often  the  evidences  of  their  passage.  As  they  came 
closer  to  London,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Fulham, 
they  slipped  miraculously  unchallenged  through  the  ad- 
vanced guard.  Here  Jeremy  saw  with  a  clear  eye 
horrors  which  affected  him  no  more  than  the  faces  of 
other  people  affect  a  hurrying  man  who  jostles  im- 
patiently against  them  in  a  crowded  street.  The  flare 
of  burning  cottages  lit  up  the  gathering  twilight,  and 
there  were  passing  scenes  of  brutality,  ,  ,  .The  in- 
vaders were  pressing  on  to  reach  the  city  by  nightfall 
and  had  no  time  to  be  exhaustively  atrocious.  But 
Jeremy  heard  (and  was  not  detracted  by  it)  the 
screams  of  tortured  men,  women,  and  children,  and 
sometimes  of  cattle.  Beyond  the  furthest  patrols  of 
the  army  they  found  the  roads  full  of  fugitives,  has- 
tening pitifully  onward,  though  the  country  held  for 
them  no  refuge  from  this  ravening  host,  unless  it 
might  be  in  mere  chance.     These,  like  their  pursuers. 


CHAOS  275 

were  but  so  many  obstacles  in  the  way  which  Jeremy 
and  the  Speaker  had  to  pass  by  as  best  they  could. 

When  they  came  to  the  first  cluster  of  houses  it  was 
dark  and  the  full  moon  had  not  yet  risen ;  but  in  front 
of  them  great  welling  fountains  of  fire  softly  yet  fierce- 
ly illuminated  the  night  sky. 

"The  people  have  gone  mad,"  Jeremy  muttered  with 
cold  understanding.  "They  are  plundering  the  city 
before  the  enemy  can  plunder  it.  Come  on,  we  must 
hurry."  He  urged  forward  the  Speaker's  horse  and 
they  plunged  together  into  that  doubtful  flame-lit  chaos. 

No  man  raised  a  hand  to  stay  them  as  they  passed. 
The  streets  were  crowded  with  hurrying  people,  both 
men  and  women,  among  whom  it  was  impossible  to  dis- 
tinguish which  were  escaping  and  which  were  looting. 
All  carried  bundles  of  incongruous  goods  and  all  looked 
fiercely  yet  shrinkingly  at  any  who  approached  them. 
Many  were  armed,  some  with  swords,  some  with  clubs, 
some  with  the  rudest  weapons,  odd  pieces  of  iron  or 
the  legs  of  chairs,  which  they  brandished  menacingly, 
prepared  to  strike  on  the  smallest  suspicion  rather  than 
be  unexpectedly  struck  down.  Here  and  there  in  the 
boiling  mob  Jeremy  distinguished  the  sinister,  de- 
graded faces,  the  rude,  bundled  clothes,  of  the 
squatters  from  the  outskirts.  Without  slackening  his 
pace  he  glanced  around  at  the  Speaker,  who  was  mov- 
ing through  the  turmoil  with  gentle  smile  and  fixed, 
unseeing  eyes.  The  time  was  already  gone  when  he 
might  have  been  affected  by  the  agony  of  his  city. 

Out  of  the  raging  inferno  of  Piccadilly,  where  al- 
ready a  dozen  houses  were  on  fire,  they  turned  down 
a  dark  and  narrow  lane  behind  two  high  walls,  and  as 
they  did  so  the  noise  of  the  tumult  became  strangely 
remote,  as  though  it  belonged  to  another  world.    Here 


276      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

there  was  no  sound  save  the  terrifying  reverberations 

caused  by  their  horses'  hoofs.  At  the  bottom  of  it  was 
a  gate  set  in  the  boundary  wall  of  the  gardens  of  the 
Treasury.  It  stood  wide  open,  and  inside  there  was 
a  mysterious  and  quiet  blackness.  They  rode  through 
and  immediately  drew  rein. 

Then  the  sense  of  these  invisible  but  familiar  walks 
and  lawns  quickened  Jeremy's  cold  resolution  to  an 
intolerable  agony  of  pain — pain  like  that  which  fol- 
lows the  thawing  of  a  frozen  limb.  During  the  wild 
and  hasty  journey  the  only  conscious  thought  that  had 
possessed  him  had  been  that  somehow  or  other  he 
must  get  to  the  Treasury.  It  had  excluded  all  con- 
sideration of  what  he  might  find,  or  what  he  should 
do  when  he  got  there.  Now  suddenly  he  understood 
that  this  place  and  all  the  people  in  it  had  been  exist- 
ing and  changing,  as  places  and  people  change,  in 
reality  as  well  as  in  his  mind,  that  things  had  been 
happening  here  in  his  absence,  all  that  week,  all  that 
day,  during  the  time  he  lay  unconscious  in  the  gunpit, 
during  the  last  hour.  ...  It  was  as  though  he  had 
carried  somewhere  in  his  brain,  unalterable  till  now 
by  any  certainty,  a  picture  of  the  Treasury  as  it  had 
always  been;  this  black  and  silent  wilderness  substi- 
tuted itself  with  a  shock  like  a  cataclysm.  For  the 
first  time  Jeremy  made  a  sound,  a  low  choked  groan 
of  extreme  anguish.  Then,  cold  as  he  had  been  be- 
fore, he  dismounted  and  bade  the  Speaker  stay  by  the 
horses,  because  the  gardens  here  were  too  much  broken 
up  for  riding  at  night.  He  hastened  forward  alone, 
staring  through  the  darkness  at  the  empty  place  where 
the  lights  of  the  Treasury  ought  to  have  been. 

But  there  was  no  light  in  any  of  the  windows,  and 
Jeremy  stumbled  on,  sinking  to  the  ankles  in  the  soft 


CHAOS  277 

earth  of  flower-beds,  catching  his  feet  in  trailing  plants, 
running  headlong  into  bushes,  growing  desperate  and 
breathless.  Suddenly  he  became  aware  of  the  build- 
ing, a  great  vague  mass  looming  over  him  like  a 
thicker  piece  of  night;  and  as  he  stared  up  at  it,  it 
seemed  to  grow  more  distinct  and  the  windows  glim- 
mered a  little  paler  than  the  darkness  around  them. 
He  crawled  cautiously  along  the  wall,  found  a  door, 
which,  like  the  garden-gate,  was  wide  open,  and  slipped 
into  the  chilling  obscurity  of  a  passage.  Then  he 
paused,  hesitating,  frightened  by  the  uncanny  silence 
and  emptiness  of  the  house. 

It  was  plain  that  the  Treasury  had  been  deserted, 
though  how  and  why  he  could  not  conjecture.  He 
stayed  by  the  door  and  rested  his  body  against  the 
wall,  racking  his  wits  to  think  what  the  Lady  Eva 
and  her  mother  might  have  been  expected  to  do  when 
the  news  of  the  disaster  reached  them — as  it  must  have 
reached  them.  He  now  perceived  his  own  weariness 
and  that  he  was  aching  in  every  member.  His  head 
was  whirling,  perhaps  from  the  delayed  effects  of  the 
blow  that  had  stunned  him,  and  he  felt  as  though  he 
were  flying,  swooping  up  and  down  in  great  dizzy 
circles.  His  back  was  an  aching  misery  that  in  no 
attitude  could  find  rest.  This  last  check,  at  what  had 
been  for  hours  and  through  incredible  adventures  his 
only  imagined  goal,  sapped  at  a  blow  his  unnatural  en- 
durance, and  for  a  moment  he  was  ready  to  fall  where 
he  stood  and  weep  in  despair. 

It  was  to  choke  back  the  tears  he  felt  rising  in  his 
throat  that  he  called  out,  foolishly,  in  a  weak  and 
hoarse  voice:     "Eva!     Where  are  you?     Eva!" 

Then  most  incredibly  from  the  bushes  in  the  garden 
a  few  yards  behind  him  came  a  wavering  low  cry, 


278      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

"Jeremy,  is  it  you?"  and  then,  in  an  accent  of  terror, 
■"Oh,  who  is  it?"  At  the  same  time  he  saw  a  shadow 
moving,  and  the  next  moment  that  shadow  was  in  his 
arms,  crying  softly,  while  he  held  her  in  a  firm  em- 
brace. 

Some  minutes  passed  thus  before  the  Lady  Eva 
recovered  her  power  of  speech.  Jeremy  lost  all  sense 
of  time  and  of  events.  He  wanted  first  to  comfort 
her  and  next  to  know  what  she  had  suffered.  He  had 
forgotten  that  he  had  come  to  take  her  away  from 
impending  danger. 

;  At  last  her  sobbing  stopped  and  she  murmured,  her 
face  still  close  against  his  breast:  "Jeremy,  mother  is 
dead!" 

"Dead!"  They  both  spoke  in  whispers,  as  though 
the  silent  gardens  were  full  of  enemies  seeking  for 
them. 

"Yes,  dead."  She  straightened  herself  and  with- 
drew from  his  arms,  as  though  she  must  be  free  before 
she  could  tell  her  story.  Then  she  went  on  in  a  low, 
hurried,  unemphasized  voice :  "Roger — you  know, 
Roger  Vaile — brought  the  news  that  .  .  .  that  you 
had  been  defeated.  He  was  with  Thomas  Wells  and 
saw  him  give  the  signal  to  surrender,  but  he  managed 
to  get  away,  and  when  he  realized  it  was  all  over  he 
came  straight  here.  He  was  badly  wounded,  I  think — 
he  stumbled  and  fell  against  me,  and  my  dress  is  all 
covered  with  blood.  .  .  ."  She  stopped  and  caught  her 
breath,  then  went  on  more  firmly :  "He  was  telling  us 
and  begging  us  to  go  away  and  hide,  and  we  didn't 
want  to  go.  Then  a  crowd  of  people  came  into  our 
room — servants,  most  of  them,  grooms  and  stable- 
men— and  told  us  that  everything  was  over,  that  there 
was  no  more  government,  and  we  had  to  get  out  at 


CHAOS  279 

once,  because  the  Treasury  belonged  to  them  now. 
And  I  said  we'd  go,  but  mother  said  out  loud :  'Then 
I  must  get  my  jewels  first.' 

"They  got  very  excited  at  that,  and  when  she  went 
to  her  chest  to  get  them,  they  went  after  her  and 
pulled  her  away,  not  roughly  really,  and  began  rum- 
maging in  the  chest  themselves.  Roger  was  standing, 
holding  on  to  a  chair,  looking  horribly  white,  and  he 
told  mother  to  come  away  and  leave  them.  But  she 
wouldn't ;  she  went  back  to  the  chest  and  ordered  them 
out  of  the  room.  They  pushed  her  away  again  more 
roughly  and  laughed  at  her,  and  she  lost  her  temper — 
you  know  how  she  used  to? — and  hit  one  of  them  in 
the  face.  Then  he — then  he  killed  her  .  .  .  with  a 
sword.  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  trailed  away  into  silence.  Jeremy  took 
her  cold  hands  and  muttered  brokenly.  "Dearest — 
dearest " 

"When  that  happened,"  she  went  on  in  the  same  even 
whisper,  "Roger  called  out  to  me  to  run  away.  He'd 
got  a  great  bandage  around  his  wound,  and  he  looked 
so  ill  I  thought  he  was  going  to  faint.  But  he  stood  in 
the  door  and  drew  his  knife  to  keep  them  from  coming 
after  me  :  I  was  just  outside  in  the  passage.  I  couldn't 
run  away.  Then  one  of  them  came  at  him,  and  Roger 
struck  at  him  with  the  knife.  The  man  just  caught 
Roger's  wrist  and  held  it  for  a  minute — Roger  was  so 
weak — and  then  pushed  him,  and  he  fell  down  in  the 
passage,  and  blood  came  pouring  out  of  his  side.  Then 
I — I  think  he  died.  And  I  ran  away.  I  don't  think 
they  came  after  me  ...  I  don't  think  they  did.  .  .  ," 

She  was  silent  again,  and  Jeremy  took  her  into  his 
arms  in  an  inarticulate  agony.  She  lay  there  limp 
and  unresponsive.     At  last  she  whispered:  "I  ought 


28o      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

to  have  stayed  and  looked  after  him  .  .  .  but  I  think 
he  was  dead.  Such  a  lot  of  blood  came  out  of  his 
wound  ...  it  poured  and  poured  over  the  floor  .  .  . 
it  came  almost  to  my  feet.  .  .  ." 

"Eva!"  said  Jeremy,  and  could  say  nothing  more. 
Several  minutes  passed  before  he  exclaimed  :  "It  doesn't 
matter.  We  must  get  away.  You  must  try  and  forget 
it  all,  beloved.     I'll  look  after  you  now." 

"I  will,  oh,  I  will!"  she  cried,  clinging  to  him. 
"But  I  can't  now — I  can  see  it  all  the  time.  I'm  trying. 
And,  Jeremy,"  she  went  on,  holding  him  as  he  tried  to 
draw  her  away,  "afterwards,  when  I  thought  they'd 
gone,  I  went  back  ...  I  went  back  to  my  room " 

"Yes,  dear."  Jeremy  was  still  trying  to  draw  her 
away. 

"And  I  got  this — look!"  Jeremy  peered  at  some- 
thing she  held  up  to  him,  but  could  not  make  out  what 
it  was.  She  thrust  it  into  his  hand,  and  he  felt  a  small 
round  metal  box,  the  size  and  shape  of  half  an  egg. 
"I  took  it  once,  months  ago,  from  that  silly  girl,  Mary. 
She  was  pretending  to  be  in  love,  and  she  said  that 
if  ever  her  lover  deserted  her  she'd  kill  herself.  Then 
she  boasted  that  she'd  got  poison  so  as  to  be  ready — 
Rose  told  me.  So  I  made  her  give  it  to  me,  and  I 
never  thought  about  it  again  till  to-day." 

"Yes,  dear,"  Jeremy  murmured  soothingly,  "but  it's 
all  right  now.  You  don't  need  it.  Shall  we  throw  it 
away?" 

"No,  no!"  she  cried  agitatedly,  snatching  the  box 
back ;  then  calmly  again :  "Don't  be  angry  with  me, 
Jeremy.  It's  stupid,  but  you  don't  know  how  I  wanted 
that  box  this  afternoon  while  I  was  hiding  in  the 
garden,  so  as  to  be  sure.  .  .  .  And  I  couldn't  get  up 
the  courage  to  go  back  and  look  for  it.    I  must  keep  it 


CHAOS  281 

for  a  little  while  now.  I'll  throw  it  away  myself  in 
a  little  while."  She  tucked  the  box  into  her  dress 
and  gave  him  her  hand.  Without  another  word  they 
set  off  towards  the  Speaker  and  the  horses. 


CHAPTER  XV 

FLIGHT 


THE  old  man  had  not  moved  from  the  spot  or  the 
attitude  in  which  Jeremy  had  left  him.  He  still 
stood  by  the  horses,  holding  the  bridles,  his  head  fallen 
forward  on  his  chest. 

"Don't  say  anything  to  him,"  Jeremy  whispered 
hurriedly  to  the  Lady  Eva,  "He's  .  .  .  he's  strange." 
She  nodded  in  reply.  Her  father,  however,  took  no 
notice  of  her,  if  he  saw  her,  but  only  turned  mutely 
to  Jeremy  as  though  awaiting  orders.  It  then  first 
occurred  to  Jeremy  to  ask  himself  what  they  ought  to 
do  next.  The  inhuman  power  which  had  sustained 
him  so  far  and  had  given  him  supernatural  gifts  of 
foresight  and  decision,  now  without  warning  deserted 
him.  He  found  himself  again  what  he  had  been  be- 
fore, an  honest,  intelligent  and  courageous  man,  placed 
by  fate  in  a  situation  which  demanded  much  more 
of  him  than  honesty,  intelligence,  or  courage.  He  felt 
like  the  survivor  of  a  midnight  shipwreck  who  loses 
in  a  flurry  of  waves  the  plank  to  which  he  is  clinging 
and  is  abandoned  to  the  incalculable  and  hostile  forces 
of  darkness  and  the  sea. 

He  turned  to  the  girl  and  asked  her  advice;  but  she 
shook  her  head  dumbly.  She  had  followed  him  there 
as  a  child  follows  its  guardian,  without  questioning 

282 


FLIGHT  283 

him,  accepting  his  wisdom  and  his  will  as  though  they 
had  been  the  inalterable  decrees  of  Providence.  In 
despair  he  addressed  the  Speaker  as  he  would  have 
addressed  him  a  week  or  even  a  day  before,  seeking 
to  learn  if  there  was  any  well-affected  magnate  in  whose 
house  they  could  find  refuge. 

A  change  became  visible  on  the  old  man's  face.  He 
seemed  to  be  struggling  to  think  and  to  speak,  and  in 
his  eagerness  he  sawed  the  air  with  his  disengaged 
hand.  At  last  he  ejaculated  in  a  strange,  hoarse  voice, 
produced  with  effort,  which  jerked  from  fast  to  slow 
and  from  the  lowest  note  to  the  highest,  as  though  he 
had  no  control  over  it : 

"Can't  make  peace  with  the  President  now — can't 
give  him  up  the  Chairman  alive.  Thomas  Wells  took 
the  Chairman  prisoner  and  cut  his  throat."  Then  he 
added  with  a  sort  of  dreadful  reflectiveness :  "Thomas 
Wells  always  did  say  that  he  believed  in  making  sure." 
And  so,  having  delivered  what  was  perhaps  his  ulti- 
mate pronouncement  on  statecraft,  he  resumed  his 
former  position,  motionless,  except  that  now  and  then 
a  violent  fit  of  shivering  shook  him  from  head  to  foot. 
Behind  the  little  group  the  houses  in  Piccadilly  burned 
up  higher  and  painted  lurid  colors  on  the  sky,  and 
away  on  the  other  side  of  the  Treasury  a  great  foun- 
tain of  golden  sparks,  dancing  and  gyrating,  showed 
that  one  of  the  houses  on  the  Embankment,  apparently 
Henry  Watkins'  house,  had  now  been  fired.  But  in 
the  garden  the  shadows  only  wavered  and  flickered 
feebly,  and  the  noise  of  the  flames,  and  of  the  looting 
of  fleeing  crowds,  came  incredibly  thin  and  gentle. 
Jeremy  and  Eva  and  the  Speaker  seemed  in  this  ob- 
scurity to  have  been  sheltered  away  from  the  violence 
of  the  world  in  a  little  haven  of  miraculous  calm,  the 


284      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

walls  of  which,  however,  were  yet  as  tenuous  and  un- 
stable as  those  of  a  soap-bubble. 

Jeremy  pondered  again,  while  his  companions  silently 
and  expectantly  regarded  him.  After  a  minute  he 
said  in  a  very  gentle  tone :  "Eva,  I  know  so  little  .  .  . 
if  we  could  get  down  to  the  coast,  do  you  think  we 
could  find  a  boat  to  take  us  over  to  France?" 

"I  think  so,"  she  replied  doubtfully.  "I  know  that 
there  are  boats  that  go  to  France,  of  course.  But  what 
shall  we  do  when  we  get  there?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  shall  find  some  way  of  looking 
after  you.  But  anyway,  we  must  do  that  because 
there's  nothing  else  for  us  to  do,  unless  we  give  our- 
selves up." 

"I  won't  be  taken  by  Thomas  Wells,"  she  said,  with 
a  catch  in  her  voice. 

Jeremy  set  his  teeth  hard  to  keep  back  his  exclama- 
tion. "We'll  do  that,"  he  assured  her  firmly.  "But 
first  of  all  we  must  go  back  to  the  house  and  get  things 
to  take  with  us." 

They  found  their  way  in  silence  through  the  gar- 
dens, Jeremy  leading  one  horse  and  the  Speaker  the 
other  and  Eva  walking  by  Jeremy,  holding  his  free 
hand.  They  searched  the  stables  first,  and  there,  to 
their  delight,  found  two  fresh  horses,  strong,  ugly 
beasts,  not  elegant  enough  for  the  Speaker's  carriage 
or  to  go  with  the  army,  but  very  suitable  for  such  a 
journey  as  was  now  proposed.  They  also  found  a 
lantern  which  Jeremy  took  with  him  into  the  Treas- 
ury. He  returned  after  a  while  with  a  supply  of 
bread  and  meat  and  some  clothes.  Then  they  went  as 
quietly  as  possible  around  to  the  courtyard,  there  to 
make  their  preparations. 

Eva  helped  Jeremy  to  pack  the  saddle-bags,  while 


FLIGHT  285 

he  explained  his  intentions  to  her.  The  coast  round 
the  mouth  of  the  Thames,  he  thought,  and  probably 
as  far  as  Dover,  would  be  overrun  at  once  by  the 
Welsh  invaders,  and  it  would  be  fatal  for  them  to  go 
in  that  direction.  He  therefore  proposed  to  double 
west,  strike  across  Sussex,  and  make  for  one  of  the 
Channel  ports  there  or  farther  on  in  Hampshire.  He 
thought  that  he  could  find  his  way,  and  that  if  they 
made  haste  they  would  escape  pursuit.  His  plans  be- 
yond that  were  of  the  vaguest:  he  supposed  that  in  the 
end  he  could  put  his  mechanical  knowledge  to  some 
use.  Perhaps  later  on  they  might  even  return  to  Eng- 
land, if  the  country  remained  unsettled,  and  assert  the 
Speaker's  claims  against  the  usurpers.  As  he  uttered 
this  cloudy  fragment  of  comfort  he  thought  of  the 
wandering  Stuarts  and  chuckled  to  himself,  sourly  but 
half-hysterically,  at  finding  himself  in  so  romantic  a 
situation. 

Meanwhile  the  Speaker  sat  crouched,  where  Jeremy 
had  placed  him,  on  an  old  mounting-stone  in  the 
courtyard,  muttering  continuously  under  his  breath. 
When  all  was  ready  for  their  departure,  Jeremy  went 
over  to  him,  arranged  a  cloak  to  hide  his  conspicuous 
face  and  beard,  and  put  a  hand  under  his  arm  to  raise 
him  up.    The  old  man  stiffly  acquiesced,  still  mumbling. 

"What  did  you  say,  sir?"  Jeremy  asked  gently. 

"Thomas  Wells  always  did  say  that  he  believed  in 
making  sure,"  the  Speaker  repeated  with  a  terrifying 
evenness  of  intonation. 

Jeremy  twisted  his  shoulders  impatiently,  as  though 
to  shake  off  an  evil  omen,  and  led  the  stooping  figure 
over  to  where  the  horses  stood  ready.  The  noise  of 
the  rioting  and  plundering  came  to  them  more  distinct- 
ly here  in  the  courtyard;  but  Whitehall  itself  was 


286      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

strangely  quiet,  as  though  the  frenzied  crowds  had 
left  the  Treasury  untouched  in  order  to  placate  the 
fast  approaching  invaders  who  were  to  be  its  new  ten- 
ants and  their  new  masters. 

Jeremy  had  just  seated  Eva  on  one  horse  and  the 
Speaker  on  the  other  and  was  preparing  to  lead  them 
out,  when  they  heard  the  clatter  of  hoofs  coming 
furiously  down  Whitehall,  rising  loud  and  clear  above 
the  confused  sounds  that  filled  the  air.  There  was 
something  arresting,  sinister,  and  purposeful  in  that 
sharp,  staccato  sound,  and,  as  if  by  instinct,  they  drew 
together  in  the  dark  entrance  to  the  courtyard,  while 
Jeremy  hastily  blew  out  the  lantern.  Then  the  rider 
reached  them,  drew  rein,  and  halted  a  yard  or  two 
away  from  them,  peering  into  the  shadow.  They  could 
see  him  only  as  a  vague  shape,  thickly  cloaked  and 
muffled,  while  behind  him  in  the  distance  little  figures 
hurried  aimlessly  into  or  out  of  the  dull  glow  of  Henry 
Watkins'  house.  Jeremy  put  one  hand  on  Eva'^  arm 
lest  she  should  make  a  rash  gesture,  while  with  the 
other  he  grasped  firmly  the  barrel  of  one  of  his  pistols. 

The  horseman  continued  to  stare  at  them  without 
moving,  as  though  uncertain  whether  what  he  saw  in 
the  gate  was  shadow  or  substance.  But  suddenly  the 
flames  opposite  shot  up  higher  and  brighter  and  cast 
a  red  dancing  reflection  on  their  faces;  and  Jeremy 
felt  like  a  fugitive  whose  hiding-place  is  unmasked. 
The  horseman  spoke  at  last,  and  Jeremy  recognized 
with  a  shudder  the  calm  drawling  voice. 

"Well,  who  are  you?"  he  said.  "What  do  you  mean 
by  looting  here?"  Jeremy  clutched  the  girl's  arm  more 
tightly  and  made  no  reply,  hoping  that  in  the  doubtful 
light  they  might  still  pass  for  stray  fugitives.  But 
the  man  urged  his  horse  a  little  nearer,  leaning  over 


FLIGHT  287 

to  look  at  them,  and  saying:  "Speak  up!  It'll  be  the 
worse  for  you  if  you  don't.    I'm  looking  for  the  Lady 

Eva.    Have  you  seen "    And  then  as  he  leant  still 

closer,  in  astonishment,  "By  God !"  Jeremy  brought 
round  his  arm  like  a  man  throwing  a  stone  and  dashed 
the  pistol-butt  heavily  in  Thomas  Wells's  face. 

The  Canadian  uttered  a  choked  cry,  sagged  forward 
on  his  horse's  neck,  and  slid  free  to  the  ground  on  the 
other  side.  Jeremy  fumbled  for  the  bayonet  which  he 
still  carried  with  him;  but  Eva  plucked  agonizedly  at 
his  shoulder,  crying:  "Jeremy!  Jeremy,  come!"  He 
hesitated  a  moment  and  heard  a  louder  sound  of  gal- 
loping hoofs  approaching.  Then  he  jumped  into 
Thomas  Wells's  empty  saddle,  turned  the  horse  and 
rode  out  into  Whitehall,  drawing  the  girl  and  the  old 
man  after  him.  A  few  minutes  later  they  were  fighting 
their  way  through  the  thickening  crowd  of  fugitives 
that  still  poured  southwards  over  Westminster  Bridge, 

When  day  broke  they  were  well  clear  of  the  south- 
ern edge  of  London,  and  a  little  later  they  were  cross- 
ing the  broad  ridge  of  the  North  Downs.  They  had 
made  a  dizzy  pace  during  the  short  night,  and  Jeremy, 
who  was  no  horsemaster,  but  knew  that  the  horses 
must  be  nearly  finished,  called  a  halt  and  suggested 
that  they  should  rest  a  little  in  a  small  grove  which  lay 
on  the  southern  slope  of  the  hill. 

The  old  man,  who  was  calm  and  indifferent  again, 
and  had  ceased  his  muttering,  rested  his  back  against 
the  trunk  of  a  tree,  his  arms  falling  ungainly  like  the 
arms  of  a  broken  doll.  He  shivered  violently  at  inter- 
vals, but  still  did  not  complain :  he  had  not  once  spoken 
to  his  companions  since  their  journey  began.  Jeremy 
after  a  doubtful  glance  at  him,  walked  to  the  lower 


288      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

edge  of  the  grove,  and  the  girl  followed  him,  treading 
noiselessly  on  the  soft  pine-needles.  While  he  stared 
vaguely  out  over  the  misty  chequer-board  of  the 
Weald,  he  felt  her  hand  placed  in  his  and  dared  not 
turn  to  look  at  her. 

Presently,  mastering  himself,  he  cried :  "Look, 
there's  Chanetonbury !"  For  the  mist  had  just  rolled 
off  that  far  and  noble  grove,  showing  it  perhaps  a 
little  larger  than  he  remembered  it,  but  in  every  other 
respect  the  same.  Then  he  added :  "Go  and  sleep,  Eva, 
while  I  keep  an  eye  on  the  road."  But  he  spoke  with- 
out force,  because  he  did  not  wish  her  to  leave  him 
alone,  he  did  not  wish  to  sacrifice  these  few  quiet  min- 
utes with  her. 

"I  can't  sleep,"  she  said.  "I  can't  sleep  again  till 
we  are  safe.     It  won't  be  long  now,  will  it?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  smiled  as  confidently  as  he 
could. 

"I  mean,  it  won't  be  long  .  .  .  one  way  or  the  other," 
she  went  on,  dragging  out  the  words  and  keeping  her 
eyes  with  difficulty  on  his. 


As  they  traveled  on,  through  the  tumbled  slope  of  the 
downs  and  out  into  the  flat  country,  a  sort  of  quietude, 
a  rigidity  of  expectation,  descended  on  the  Httle  party. 
There  had  been  so  far  no^  sign  that  they  were  pur- 
sued or  that  the  wave  of  invasion  was  extending  this 
way;  and  Jeremy  began  to  believe  that  they  had  es- 
caped from  their  enemies.  But  the  news  of  fatal 
changes  in  the  kingdom  had  gone  before  them.  The 
sight  of  strange  travelers  on  the  road  was  alarming 
to  the  workers  in  the  fields.     Once,  when  they  would 


FLIGHT  289 

have  stopped  a  rustic  hobbledehoy  to  ask  their  way,  he 
ran  from  them,  screaming  to  unseen  companions  that 
the  Welsh  had  come  to  bum  the  village.  Once  they 
found  the  gates  of  a  great  park  barricaded  as  if  for 
a  siege,  and  behind  it  two  or  three  old  men  with  shot- 
guns who  warned  them  fiercely  away.  The  whole 
country,  as  yet  untouched  by  that  menacing  hand, 
was  in  a  state  of  shrinking  preparation  and  alarm. 

But  they  husbanded  their  provision  and  went  on, 
independent  of  all  help,  striking  towards  the  distant 
line  of  hills,  which  once  crossed  they  would  be  able  to 
find  their  way  to  the  coast.  From  Portsmouth,  Jeremy 
learnt,  an  inlet  now  silted  up  and  almost  negligible, 
the  smugglers  were  said  to  cross  to  France  and  back ; 
and  a  not  unusual  item  in  their  freight  was  criminals 
escaping  from  justice.  So  at  least  Eva  had  gathered 
'from  the  stories  that  used  to  drift  about  the  Treasury, 
starting  perhaps  from  some  clerk  concerned  with  the 
prevention  or  the  overseeing  of  this  abuse.  Jeremy 
steered  their  course  there  for  a  little  to  the  west,  and 
trusted  to  heaven  to  see  them  straight  to  their  goal. 

Their  progress  was  slow  and  fretted  him,  so  that 
at  first  it  was  necessary  for  Eva  to  calm  and  console 
him  two  or  three  times  in  every  hour.  The  Speaker, 
who  had  still  not  awakened  from  his  dream,  was 
manifestly  very  ill  and  sometimes  kept  his  seat  in  the 
saddle  with  difficulty.  His  breath  had  grown  short 
and  stertorous ;  and  he  had  fits  in  which  he  fought 
for  air,  while  his  face  became  black  and  the  veins  in 
his  neck  and  temples  congested.  During  the  worst 
of  these  they  had  to  stop  and  let  him  rest  by  the 
road-side,  while  Eva  loosened  his  garments,  bathed 
his  forehead  with  water  from  the  nearest  ditch,  and 
murmured  over  him  the  tender  words  of  a  mother  over 


290      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

a  child.  At  these  times  Jeremy  would  stride  away, 
biting  his  lip  and  clenching  his  hands,  muttering  that 
every  care  Eva  lavished  on  her  father  was  a  moment 
lost  in  the  race  for  her  safety.  But  before  he  had 
gone  many  yards  in  his  indignation  he  would  ask 
himself  how  much  anxiety  for  himself  and  for  his 
own  future  happiness  with  her  had  done  to  provoke 
this  fury.  Even  while  his  brow  was  drawn  and  his 
lips  were  still  muttering,  some  independent  voice  in  his 
brain  would  be  pronouncing  judgment  on  his  un- 
worthy weakness  and  sending  him  back,  quivering  with 
self-restraint,  to  offer  Eva,  ungraciously  but  sincerely, 
what  help  he  could. 

Then  she  would  smile  up  at  him  divinely,  diverting 
to  him  for  a  moment  the  flood  of  loving  pity  she  had 
poured  on  her  outworn  and  helpless  father.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  she,  who  was  the  most  terribly  threatened 
of  the  three,  stood  most  aloof,  most  untouched  of  all 
of  them,  from  the  cruel  things  of  the  world,  a  per- 
son infinitely  wise  and  compassionate,  who  would  com- 
prehend at  once  the  causes  of  his  gusts  of  passion  as 
well  as  their  futility. 

The  country-side  appeared  to  be,  as  Jeremy  had  in- 
deed expected  to  see  it,  greener  and  richer  and  fuller 
than  he  had  ever  known  it.  The  crops  far  and  wide 
were  already  approaching  maturity  and  promised  a 
full  harvest.  The  woods  covered  a  greater  space,  but 
were  better  cared  for ;  and  everywhere  men  were  work- 
ing in  them,  tending  them,  felling  trees,  or  burning 
charcoal.  There  seemed  to  be  fewer  enclosed  fields  of 
grass,  while  the  open  commons  had  grown,  and  now 
maintained  sheep  and  cows,  goats  and  geese,  herded  by 
ragged  and  dirty  little  boys  and  girls.  Even  on  this 
journey  Jeremy  could  not  help  watching  curiously  all 


FLIGHT  291 

they  passed  and  noting  the  contrast  with  his  own  day, 
and  he  saw  this  rich  and  idyllic  country  with  some- 
thing of  a  constriction  at  the  heart.  Apparently  in  the 
mad  turmoil  of  the  Troubles,  while  lunatics  had  fought 
and  destroyed  one  another,  the  best  of  the  English 
had  managed  to  stretch  out  a  hand  and  take  back  a 
little  of  what  had  been  their  own  and  to  restore  a  little 
of  what  had  been  best  in  England.  And  now  .  .  . 
Jeremy  wished  they  could  have  passed  through  one  of 
the  larger  country  towns  to  observe  its  reviving  pros- 
perity, but  they  dared  not,  and  skirted  Horsham  as 
widely  as  the  roads  would  allow  them.  In  the  vil- 
lages there  seemed  to  be  a  more  vigorous  life  but  less 
civilization.  Still,  here  and  there,  on  ancient  houses 
hung  metal  plates  from  which  the  enamel  was  not  yet 
all  gone,  advertising  some  long-vanished  commodity, 
or  announcing  that  it  was  so  many  miles  to  some- 
where else.  But  the  old  buildings  tottered  and  flaked 
away  even  as  Jeremy  looked  at  them;  and  the  new 
population  was  sheltered  in  hideous  and  rickety  barns. 
But  all  this  progress  through  the  Weald  had  the 
uneven  quality  of  a  dream,  in  which  at  one  moment 
events  are  hurried  together  with  inconceivable  rapid- 
ity, while  at  another  they  are  drawn  out  as  though  to 
make  a  thin  pattern  over  the  waste  spaces  of  eternity. 
Sometimes  Jeremy  rode  impatiently  a  yard  or  two  in 
front  of  his  companions,  eaten  up  by  a  burning  pas- 
sion for  haste,  sometimes  with  them,  or  behind  them, 
dull,  patient,  resigned,  uninterested.  When  he  looked 
at  the  Lady  Eva  with  anxious  or  with  pathetic  eyes, 
he  saw  her  still  serene  and  controlled.  On  the  first 
night  after  their  escape  they  had  covered  only  a  little 
more  than  half  of  the  distance  to  the  hills,  when  weari- 
ness forced  them  to  stop  and  rest  in  a  wood  not  far 


292       THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

from  Slinfold.  From  the  edge  of  the  wood  they  could 
see  the  village,  where  one  light  still  burned,  perhaps 
that  of  the  inn;  and  some  desire  for  company  made 
them  rest  in  a  spot  where  they  could  keep  it  in  view. 
At  first  it  was  an  intense  and  brilliant  point  in  the 
soft,  melting  dusk  and  later,  as  the  darkness  grew 
complete,  the  only  real  thing  in  a  country  that  had 
become  mysterious  and  intangible. 

Jeremy  had  wished  to  go  on  into  the  village  and 
find  a  lodging  there,  so  that  the  old  man  might  be  made 
comfortable  at  least  during  the  night.  But  on  re- 
flection he  decided  that  the  fewer  witnesses  they  left 
behind  of  their  passage  across  the  country  the  greater 
would  be  their  chances  of  safety.  It  was  not  impossible 
that  Thomas  Wells  or  the  President  should  send  out 
scouting-parties  after  them;  and  the  Speaker  was  a 
noticeable  man.  He  therefore  announced,  as  the  leader 
from  whose  decision  there  was  no  appeal,  that  they 
would  sleep  in  the  open;  and  Eva,  gravely  nodding, 
acquiesced.  They  made  a  bed  for  the  Speaker  of  dry 
leaves,  such  as  still  lay  under  the  trees,  and  the  saddle- 
cloths, and  disposed  him  on  it.  He  was  for  once 
breathing  easily  and  quietly,  and  obeyed  them  like  a 
very  young  child.  But  no  sooner  was  he  asleep  than 
his  day-long  silence  and  passivity  gave  way  to  a  rest- 
less muttering  and  gesturing.  Jeremy,  bending  over 
him,  could  distinguish  nothing  in  the  torrent  of  words 
that  came  blurred  and  jumbled  from  the  blackened 
lips;  but  he  recognized  in  the  rise  and  fall  of  the 
voice  a  horrible  likeness  to  those  long  and  furious 
tirades  on  the  future  of  England,  of  which  he  had 
been  the  recipient  during  his  days  in  the  workshops. 

He  covered  up  the  Speaker  with  a  shuddering  ten- 
derness, left  him,  and  came  back  to  Eva,  who  had 


FLIGHT  293 

settled  herself  with  her  back  against  a  tree.  As  soon 
as  he  sat  down  at  her  side  she  slipped  wearily  into 
his  arms  and,  looking  up  at  him,  said  softly,  "We 
love  one  another,  Jeremy" — not  an  appeal  or  a  protes- 
tation, but  a  simple  statement  of  fact,  of  the  last 
certitude  which  remained  unassailable  in  this  moving 
and  deceitful  world.  She  said  nothing  more  before 
she  fell  asleep  with  her  head  on  his  shoulder;  and  in  a 
little  while  in  this  cramped  and  uncomfortable  posi- 
tion he  too  slept. 

The  next  day  they  pressed  on  again;  but  they  had 
not  gone  many  miles  before  it  became  obvious  that 
the  Speaker  was  much  worse,  was  in  a  high  fever  and 
was  growing  delirious.  His  eyes  shone  brilHantly 
and  seemed  to  have  increased  in  size  and  his  cheeks 
were  flushed  with  a  deep  red.  Once,  when  from  ex- 
haustion and  misery  they  had  for  a  moment  ceased 
to  watch  him  and  to  hold  him  in  his  saddle,  he  checked 
his  horse,  slid  off  and  made  unsteadily  for  a  wood 
which  lay  some  distance  on  one  side  of  their  way. 
Jeremy  had  to  dismount,  go  after  him,  and  drag  him 
back  to  the  road  by  force.  Now  for  the  first  time  he 
began  to  speak  aloud  and  intelligibly,  to  rave  of  what 
he  intended  to  do  for  England,  how  he  would 
strengthen  her  government  and  renew  her  civilization, 
how  he  would  teach  the  people  their  ancient  arts  and 
make  them  again  the  most  powerful  in  the  world. 

By  this  time  Jeremy,  persevering  mutely  and  pa- 
tiently, was  conscious  of  the  old  man  only  as  an  in- 
tolerable burden  on  their  flight.  He  even  revolved 
plans  of  letting  him  escape  or  leaving  him  by  the  road- 
side, arguing  furiously  in  his  mind  that  to  drag  along 
with  him  a  man  so  obviously  past  saving,  a  man  who, 
at  the  best,  all  disasters  aside,  was  anyway  without 


294      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

doubt  at  the  end  of  his  Hfe,  was  inviting  destruction 
for  himself  and  Eva,  who  were  young  and  vigorous 
and  hopeful,  and  had  all  their  life  and  their  love  before 
them.  But  he  knew  very  well  that  he  could  make 
no  connection  between  his  logic  and  the  reality.  He 
sometimes  caressed  the  girl's  shoulder  with  a  clumsy 
gesture  and  she  smiled  at  him  in  reply.  All  through 
that  day  hardly  a  word  passed  l^etween  them  which 
was  not  necessary.  To  all  appearance  their  only  link 
might  have  been  the  ancient  and  insensible  being  with 
whose  safety  they  were  charged.  But  in  their  silent 
union  to  serve  this  end,  in  the  accord  moved  and 
ratified  by  a  look  or  a  lifted  finger,  Jeremy  recognized 
and  was  exalted  by  the  inevitability,  the  invincibility 
of  the  bond  that  held  them.  Somehow  he  had  been 
launched  flying  at  random  through  the  centuries  and 
had  fallen  at  the  side  of  this  one  woman.  Life  might 
do  with  them  what  chance  directed ;  but  they  had  met, 
and  out  of  that  meeting  had  arisen  their  love,  which 
was  a  stable  and  eternal  thing,  which  he  felt  to  be 
unmoved  even  in  these  death-throes  of  a  world. 

Amidst  such  delays  they  did  not  come  until  nightfall 
to  the  road  which  runs  along  the  foot  of  the  Downs, 
and  at  which  Jeremy  had  been  aiming.  Just  as  they 
entered  it  from  a  deeply-rutted  side-track,  the  old  man 
uttered  a  heart-rending  sound  and  collapsed  on  the 
neck  of  his  horse  in  the  worst  crisis  he  had  yet  suf- 
fered. Jeremy  reined  in  and  stopped,  his  brow  con- 
tracted, his  heart  sinking  as  he  realized  that  it  was 
impossible  to  push  on.  Then  with  a  sigh  he  dis- 
mounted, and  lifted  the  Speaker  to  the  ground.  As 
he  did  so  it  seemed  to  him  that  in  this  short  time  the 
old  man's  great  bulk  had  wasted  and  grown  frail,  so 
that  his  body  was  no  heavier  than  that  of  a  child.    Eva 


FLIGHT  295 

too  dismounted,  and,  bending  over  her  father,  at- 
tempted to  restore  him,  but  without  effect.  It  seemed 
every  moment  that  his  loud  and  labored  breathing  must 
cease  from  sheer  inability  to  overcome  the  impediment 
that  hung  on  it.  His  delirium  had  passed  into  a 
pitiful  and  not  peaceful  stupor;  and  Jeremy  began 
to  believe  that  death  was  at  hand. 

He  contemplated  the  fact  without  emotion;  but 
Eva  grew  agitated,  caught  him  by  the  hand,  and  cried, 
"What  shall  we  do?  What  can  we  do?"  And  then,  be- 
fore he  could  reply,  she  went  on,  "Look,  there  are  some 
houses  in  front  of  us  :  we  must  be  coming  into  a  village. 
Let's  try  to  get  a  lodging,  whatever  the  risk  may  be. 
He  mustn't  die  like  this  by  the  roadside." 

Jeremy  stood  up  and  gazed  where  she  pointed.  A 
few  houses  were  dotted  among  the  trees,  and  lights 
flickered  here  and  there.  For  a  moment  he  was  bal- 
anced between  protest  and  consent. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  in  a  level  tired  voice,  "I'll  go 
on,  and  see  what  sort  of  a  place  it  is.  Will  you  not 
be  afraid  to  be  alone  with  him  till  I  come  back?" 
She  shook  her  head,  and  he  set  off. 

As  soon  as  he  entered  the  tiny  village,  dogs  ran  out 
from  the  yards,  barking  and  snapping  at  his  heels. 
He  kept  them  off  with  his  riding-whip,  and  stumbled 
along  looking  for  the  inn.  Vague  thick-set  shapes 
lurched  past  him  on  heavy  feet,  and  vanished  here 
and  there.  Presently,  after  he  had  tripped  over  a  rut 
and  fallen  headlong  into  a  heap  of  evil-smelling  refuse, 
he  came  upon  a  little  ramshackle  hovel  which  seemed, 
from  the  noise  of  conviviality  issuing  through  the  half- 
open  door,  to  be  what  he  sought.  He  paused  outside 
for  a  moment,  brushing  the  filth  from  his  garments 
and  listening. 


296      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

Inside,  the  worthies  of  the  village  were  rejoicing 
after  the  day's  work.  Jeremy  could  hear  the  slow, 
long  drawn-out  sound  of  Sussex  talk,  not  changed 
by  a  couple  of  centuries  (or  rather  thrown  back  by 
that  interval  into  the  peculiarity  it  had  at  one  time 
seemed  likely  to  lose)  and  the  noise  of  liquor  being 
poured  and  of  pots  being  scraped  on  a  table.  Then 
a  voice  was  raised  in  song,  and  all  the  laborers  joined 
it,  roaring  and  shouting  in  unison.  Jeremy's  momen- 
tary hesitation  lengthened,  continued,  grew  timeless. 
.  .  .  His  tired  brain  was  going  round,  the  dark  scene 
about  him  was  melting  and  being  built  up  again.  He 
forgot  why  he  was  there  or  whence  he  had  come.  He 
could  only  remember,  vaguely  struggling  still  to  realize 
that  this  was  not  it,  one  particular  night,  very  black 
and  wretched,  when  they  had  been  hauling  up  the 
guns  in  preparation  for  the  opening  of  the  Battle  of 
the  Somme,  and  all  the  men  of  the  battery  had  sung 
in  chorus  to  keep  themselves  cheerful.  This  was  like 
a  shadow-show  in  which  he  could  not  tell  the  real 
from  the  fictitious.  Who  and  where  was  he?  Who 
was  singing  that  familiar,  that  haunting  or  haunted 
melody?  Was  it  those  old  comrades  of  the  German 
wars  who  had  suffered  with  him  in  the  Salient,  and 
at  Arras,  and  by  Albert,  or  could  it  be  .  .  .  ?  He 
could  not  hear  the  words  until  at  last  they  came  to 
him  clearly  in  the  emphasis  of  the  last  repetition,  as 
the  laborers  shouted  together : 

Pack  up  my  troubles  in  some  owekyebow 
And  smile,  smile,  smile! 

The  recognition  of  the  garbled  words,  the  subtly 
altered  tune,  shot  him  back  at  once  from  that  middle 
world  of  fantastic  unreality  to  the  immediate  problem, 


FLIGHT  297 

the  flight,  the  Speaker  fighting  to  get  his  breath  a  few 
hundred  yards  down  the  road.  His  first  start  of  sur- 
prise had  carried  his  hand  to  the  latch  and  he  pushed 
the  door  open,  and  went  into  the  low,  brick-floored, 
reeking  parlor. 

His  entrance  produced  an  immediate  hush.  Pots 
were  arrested  half-way  to  thirsty  mouths  and  every 
eye  stared  roundly  at  him.  It  seemed  to  him  too  that 
there  was  a  slight  involuntary  shrinking  away  from 
him  among  all  these  hearty,  earth-stained  men,  but 
he  was  too  weary  to  do  more  than  receive  the  impres- 
sion without  curiosity  as  to  its  meaning,  without  more 
than  a  flickering  and  uninterested  recollection  of  the 
fact  that  he  was  unarmed.  But  immediately  a  relaxa- 
tion succeeded  the  hush  and  the  inn-keeper  pushed 
forward,  saying, 

"Why,  I  did  think  as  how  you  was  one  of  them 
Welshmen  come  back  again!" 

This  speech  was  to  Jeremy  as  though  a  dagger  of 
ice  had  been  driven  into  his  heart,  and  the  room 
swayed  round  him.  But  he  betrayed  no  trouble  in  his 
expression,  took  a  firm  grip  on  his  mind  and  laughed 
with  the  inn-keeper  at  the  idea.  All  the  rustics  joined 
in  his  laughter,  nudged  one  another,  went  forward 
with  their  interrupted  drinking,  and  murmured, 

"That's  a  good  'un!" 

When  the  merriment  had  a  little  subsided,  he  asked 
as  casually  as  he  could  manage  whether  the  Welsh- 
men had  been  there  that  day.  All  at  once  began  to 
tell  him  how  a  party  of  soldiers  speaking  a  strange, 
hardly  recognizable  tongue,  had  entered  the  village 
early  in  the  morning.  Their  leader,  who  could  just 
make  himself  understood  in  the  eastern  speech,  had 
held  an  inquisition  and  had  terrified  the  inhabitants 


298      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

almost  out  of  their  wits.  They  had  also  emptied  a 
barrel  of  beer,  and  made  off  with  a  sucking-pig  and 
a  good  many  fowls  before  riding  away.  The  vil- 
lagers, it  seemed,  had  been  too  much  concerned  in 
keeping  out  of  their  way  to  be  certain  what  direction 
they  had  taken;  but  Jeremy  gathered  that  they  had 
scattered,  some  going  towards  Houghton  Bridge,  some 
towards  Pulborough,  some  towards  Duncton. 

"Too  bad,"  said  Jeremy  sympathetically,  his  wits 
working  at  high  speed  and  warning  him  to  be  cau- 
tious.   "What  do  you  suppose  they  were  looking  for?" 

"Some  tale  about  an  old  man  and  a  young  man  and 
a  young  woman,"  the  inn-keeper  grumbled.  Jeremy 
nodded  negligently  in  reply,  and  the  inn-keeper  went 
on,  "And  what  might  you  be  wanting  yourself?" 

Jeremy  explained  that  he  had  been  unexpectedly 
overtaken  by  darkness  on  the  way  to  Arundel,  and  that 
he  was  looking  for  a  bed.  A  friend,  he  said,  was  wait- 
ing just  outside  the  village  for  his  report:  an}1:hing 
would  do,  he  added,  desiring  to  be  plausible.  He  and 
his  friend  were  easily  served  and  used  to  roughing 
it :  a  truss  of  hay  in  a  loft  or  a  corner  in  a  shed  under 
a  cart  would  be  enough  for  them. 

"We  can  do  that  for  'ee,"  replied  the  inn-keeper  hos- 
pitably, and  Jeremy,  thanking  him,  said  that  he  would 
fetch  his  friend  and  return  at  once.  When  they  re^ 
turned,  he  observed,  as  he  slid  through  the  door,  he 
hoped  the  whole  company  would  still  be  there  to  drink 
to  their  health.  He  left  the  inn  a  popular  and  unsus- 
pected person.  But  when  he  was  a  few  yards  away 
from  it  he  began  to  run,  and  he  blundered  desperately 
through  the  darkness  till  he  came  to  Eva  and  her 
father,  the  old  man  still  lying  prone,  the  girl  crouched 
by  his  side  under  the  hedge. 


FLIGHT  299 

"Eva "  he  began,  panting. 

"Have  you  found  a  place,  Jeremy?"  she  cried  anx- 
iously. "I  think  we  could  get  him  there  now.  His 
breathing's  easier,  and " 

Jeremy  took  her  by  the  shoulder  and  spoke  calmly. 
"Listen,"  he  said.  "We  can't  go  into  that  village 
or  any  other.  There's  been  a  party  of  the  President's 
men  there  to-day  looking  for  us,  and  they're  still 
about  somewhere." 

She  turned  her  shadowed  face  up  to  him  and  lis- 
tened attentively  without  opening  her  lips.  "There's 
only  one  thing  we  can  do,"  he  went  on  with  the  same 
coolness.  "We  must  get  up  at  once  on  to  the  downs 
and  leave  the  horses  here.  I  used  to  know  them  pretty 
well  and  we  ought  to  have  something  like  a  chance 
of  hiding  there  if  they  chase  us.  We  can  crawl  right 
along,  never  getting  far  from  cover  and  only  just 
crossing  roads,  till  we're  near  Portsmouth.  There's 
no  help  for  it,  Eva.  They're  looking  for  tis:  you 
know  what  that  means." 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  that  she  would  rebel;  and 
then  she  bowed  her  head  and  put  her  hand  in  his. 
"Very  well,"  she  said  in  a  quiet  voice.  "We  must  do 
as  you  think  best."  Jeremy  had  the  impression  that, 
from  some  divine  and  inconceivable  height,  she  was 
humoring  his  childish  attachment  to  this  bauble  of 
her  life.  Instinctively  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her  and  felt  the  passionate  response  of  her 
whole  body.  In  the  next  second  they  were  again  prac- 
tical and  cold,  taking  from  the  saddle-bags  and  hang- 
ing about  them  such  of  their  store  of  food  as  still 
remained.  Then  they  lifted  the  Speaker  between  them 
and  found  that  there  was  just  enough  strength  left 
in  his  limbs  to  carry  him  along  if  he  was  strongly 


300      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

supported  on  both  sides.  A  few  yards  away  from 
them  a  narrow  track,  trodden  in  the  chalk,  ghmmered 
faintly;  and  they  turned  into  it,  making  a  slow  and 
labored  progress  up  the  side  of  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   ROMAN   ROAD 


'T^HAT  night  was  one  of  the  cold  and  starry  nights 
-■-  which  sometimes  fall  on  the  downs  in  the  middle 
of  summer.  As  they  began  to  climb  up  the  slope, 
the  earth  seemed  to  be  returning  in  warm,  almost 
tangible  waves,  the  heat  it  had  received  during  the 
day  from  the  sun.  But  when  they  got  clear  of  the 
gloomy  beech  groves  on  the  lower  slopes,  when  the 
uneven  track  had  failed  them  and  left  them  in  the 
middle  of  a  great  sweep  of  open  grass,  this  ceased, 
and  the  air  grew  gradually  cooler.  Presently  the  wind, 
which  had  fallen  at  dusk,  rose  again,  coming  from 
another  direction,  faint  but  chilly.  The  motion  of 
the  air  could  hardly  be  felt,  yet  it  had  in  it  some 
quality  which  touched  and  stayed  the  blood  and  ener- 
vated the  spirit.  These  hours  of  darkness  promised, 
before  they  were  done,  to  reduce  the  fugitives  to  a 
lower  state  of  wretchedness  than  they  yet  had  suffered. 
When  they  had  stumbled  for  some  time  up  the  steep- 
ly rising  hill-side  which  bore  only  small  and  scattered 
patches  of  gorse  and  juniper,  Jeremy  realized  that 
they  were  now  as  far  from  the  road  as  they  needed 
to  be,  and  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  them  ta 
walk  on  much  longer.  He  looked  about  him  for  some 
shelter  in  which  they  might  pass  the  night  and  not 

301 


302      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

be  immediately  obvious  to  any  searcher  when  day 
broke.  But  he  could  see  none;  and  he  began  to  be 
troubled  in  his  mind,  for  he  dared  not  halt  lest  ex- 
haustion should  pin  them  in  the  open  where  they  stood. 
He  scanned  eagerly  every  patch  of  bush  that  they 
passed ;  but  all  were  too  thin  and  too  much  exposed. 
At  last  on  his  left  he  thought  he  saw  a  line  dark  against 
the  dark  sky,  which  might  perhaps  be  a  wood.  He 
pulled  gently  at  the  old  man's  arm  and  directed  their 
steps  towards  it.  When  they  came  close  it  proved  to 
be  a  thick  grove  of  bushes  and  low  thorn  trees,  run- 
ning on  either  hand  out  of  the  narrow  limits  of  their 
sight. 

"This  will  do  well  enough,"  he  said  in  the  mur- 
mured voice  of  pre-occupation ;  and  Eva  assented  with 
a  single  word. 

They  pushed  their  way  through  the  close  growth, 
and  came  suddenly  on  a  steep  bank  three  or  four  yards 
from  the  edge  of  the  thicket. 

"This  will  do!"  Jeremy  cried  in  a  heartier  tone;  and 
he  explained  that  he  wished  to  be  well  hidden  by 
bushes,  but  not  so  much  shut  in  that  in  the  morning 
they  could  not  get  a  clear  view  of  the  country  around 
them.  But,  while  he  was  explaining  all  this,  Eva  was 
gently  laying  down  the  Speaker,  so  that  his  head  rested 
against  the  bank,  and  making  for  his  head  a  pillow 
out  of  her  cloak.  Jeremy  silently  gave  her  his  own 
cloak,  with  which  she  covered  the  sleeping  or  comatose 
old  man.  When  she  had  finished  she  stood  up,  shiv- 
ered slightly,  and  folded  her  arms  as  if  to  retain  the 
last  vanishing  sparks  of  warmth  in  her  body.  Jeremy, 
standing  also,  quiet  and  somber,  felt  a  wave  of  in- 
expressible emotion  rise  in  his  heart  at  the  sight  of 
her  slender  and  shadowy  figure. 


THE  ROMAN  ROAD  303 

"Eva  .  .  .  Eva  .  .  ."  he  murmured,  and  she 
came  into  his  arms  as  though  that  had  been  the  homing- 
cry.  They  had  no  words  to  use  with  one  another. 
They  kissed  once,  and  then  stood  locked  in  his  em- 
brace, Eva's  face  pressed  into  his  shoulder,  one  of  his 
broad  hands  on  her  hair,  the  other  at  her  waist.  After 
a  little  while  he  pressed  her  head  gently  backwards, 
bent  the  supple  waist  and  lowered  her  on  to  the  ground 
as  tenderly  as  she  had  lowered  her  father.  She  suf- 
fered what  he  did  without  speaking  or  resisting,  and 
allowed  him  to  move  her  head  so  that  it  rested  on  a 
thick  tuft  of  grass,  and  to  wrap  her  riding  skirt  tightly 
about  her  ankles.  For  a  moment  after  he  had  done 
the  silence  endured,  and  Jeremy  thought  that,  even 
thus,  after  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  she  would  not  find 
it  hard  to  sleep.  But  when  she  saw  him  standing, 
square,  black  and  aloof,  between  her  and  the  stars, 
she  called  out  to  him  softly, 

"Jeremy !  Jeremy !  come  down  to  me !"  He  knelt  by 
her  side,  and  laid  one  hand  on  her  arm,  conscious,  as 
he  made  it,  of  the  clumsiness  and  inexpressiveness  of 
the  gesture.  "Lie  down  by  me,"  she  went  on.  "The 
night  will  be  cold,  and  we  shall  keep  one  another 
warm." 

After  the  first  exquisite  exhilaration  of  finding  him- 
self at  her  side,  limb  to  limb,  cheek  to  cheek,  clasped 
in  her  arms  as  she  in  his,  the  faculty  of  reckoning  min- 
utes and  hours  vanished  from  his  mind.  This  seemed 
to  him  an  image  of  the  eternal  night  which  descends 
on  all.  He  had  a  vision  of  a  shrouded  figure  pacing 
an  endless  corridor  and  pausing  for  the  length  of  a 
human  life  between  one  step  and  the  next.  Only  the 
slow,  unintermittent  rhythm  of  the  girl's  breathing 
suggested  to  him  that  time  passed.    He  stirred  slightly 


304      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

in  her  arms :  he  wished  to  look  up  at  the  sky. 
At  their  heads  stood  a  low  hawthorn,  beaten, 
stunted,  and  misshapen  by  many  fierce  winds,  which 
threw  out  its  sprawling  branches  over  them;  and  close 
to  their  side  was  a  thick  overhanging  clump  of  gorse. 
Between  the  two  swam  vaguely  the  North  Star;  and 
his  eyes  strayed  from  this  to  the  Great  Bear,  whence 
he  found  or  guessed  the  other  constellations,  riding  the 
night  sky,  remote,  brilliant  and  serene.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  what  spirit  he  had  left  ceased  to  be  human 
and  was  sucked  up  into  the  fellowship  of  those  bright 
indififerent  lights,  and  the  vast  spaces  which  separated 
them.  He  began  to  amuse  himself  by  calling  back  to 
mind  as  much  as  he  could  remember  of  that  ancient 
and  ridiculous  science,  astronomy.  Odd  facts  floated 
into  his  thoughts  concerning  the  weight  of  the  stars, 
the  speed  of  a  ray  of  light,  the  nature  of  gravitation. 
He  recalled  epoch-making  and  cataclysmic  discoveries, 
all  records  of  which  were  now  very  likely  erased  from 
the  annals  of  mankind.  He  wondered  idly  what  had 
become  of  So-and-so  who  had  been  forever  busy 
with  the  perihelion  of  Mercury,  and  of  Such-and-such 
who  had  exhibited  strange  frenzies  when  you  men- 
tioned to  him  the  name  of  a  noted  Continental  astron- 
omer. He  recollected  queer  empty  wrangles  about  the 
relation  between  the  universe  we  can  see  or  conceive, 
and  the  infinite,  inconceivable  universe,  of  the  existence 
of  which  our  minds  mysteriously  inform  us.  He  was 
fascinated  by  the  recurrence  in  his  thoughts  of  a 
theory  that  our  system,  and  all  the  stars  we  can  see, 
are  but  one  minute  and  negligible  organism,  moving 
regularly  through  space.  .  .  .  He  was  trying  to  form 
some  image  of  what  this  must  mean,  when  he  felt 
himself  recalled,  as  though  to  another  life,  by  a  voice 


THE  ROMAN  ROAD  305 

that  was  infinitely  distant,  infinitely  faint,  and  which 
had  once  held  an  infinite  significance  for  him.  It  was 
a  struggle  to  come  back  to  this  forgotten  point  in  time 
and  space :  he  struggled.  .  .  . 

The  girl  was  speaking.  "J^^^^iy/'  she  repeated, 
louder,  "I  am  not  asleep." 

He  came  back,  awoke  into  the  real  world  with  a 
shock  like  that  of  a  diver  coming  out  of  the  sea,  and 
found  that  still  the  same  night  was  in  progress,  that 
nothing  around  him  had  changed,  and  that  he  was 
very  cold.  They  had  both  of  them  given  up  their 
cloaks  to  the  old  man  and  had  nothing  to  cover  them. 
The  wind,  so  faint  and  tenuous  that  it  was  impossible 
to  tell  whence  it  came,  crept  insidiously  through  or 
over  everything  that  might  have  served  them  for  a  shel- 
ter. The  thin  air  surrounded  and  drenched  them 
with  its  enervating  chill,  taking  away  from  them 
almost  even  the  strength  for  speech.  But  Jeremy 
answered, 

"Nor  am  I,  dearest.    I  was  thinking." 

They  lay  silent  for  some  time.  Then  Eva  began 
again,  "Do  you  know  where  we  are?" 

"I  don't  at  all.  I  didn't  think  to  ask  the  name  of 
the  village.  We  must  be  somewhere  on  the  downs 
between  Bury  and  Duncton,  but  I  couldn't  see  where- 
abouts in  the  darkness.  Anyway,  in  the  morning  we 
must  make  towards  the  west." 

Silence  again. 

But  the  effort  of  recalling  these  facts  had  drawn 
Jeremy  back  to  human  life;  and  presently  he  said 
with  simplicity,  *T  love  you  ...  I  love  you.  .  .  ,"  She 
answered  him,  and  they  talked,  telling  one  another 
of  their  feelings,  exploring  strange  paths,  making 
strange  discoveries,  each   taking  turns  to  draw   the 


3o6      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

other  aside,  like  two  children  together  in  a  wood, 
one  of  whom  points  out  the  flowers,  while  the  other, 
finger  on  lip,  calls  for  silence  to  listen  to  the  birds. 
As  they  talked  in  soft  murmurs  they  forgot  the  cold 
and  the  passage  of  time :  it  was  the  longest  converse 
they  had  ever  held  in  intimacy.  Thus  it  was  not  the 
gray  light  of  morning  stealing  over  the  hill-side  but 
the  Speaker,  who  suddenly  began  to  be  restless  and 
to  cough  and  moan  in  his  sleep,  that  first  drew  their 
attention  from  themselves. 

Eva  started  hurriedly  out  of  Jeremy's  embrace  and 
went  to  the  old  man.  He  was  in  the  grip  of  another 
attack;  and  his  contorted  face  showed  that  he  was 
suffering  deeply.  Jeremy  followed  her,  and  stood 
helplessly  by  while  she  arranged  more  comfortably 
the  folded  cloak  under  his  head  and  drew  over  his 
body  the  wrappings  which,  as  constantly,  with  aimless 
violent  movements  of  his  arms  he  threw  off  again. 
Then,  as  suddenly  as  the  attack  had  begun,  it  seemed 
to  pass.  The  old  man  grew  calm  and  allowed  him- 
self to  be  covered.  He  settled  on  his  back,  folded  his 
arms  across  his  breast  and  threw  back  his  head; 
and  his  breathing  became  more  gentle.  Jeremy  dis- 
covered with  a  shock  that  the  sunken  and  brilliant 
eyes  were  open  and  were  intensely  fixed  on  his.  He 
opened  his  mouth  to  say  he  knew  not  what,  but  the 
Speaker  had  begun  in  a  faint  but  distinct  whisper. 

"Jeremy,  we  were  beaten " 

It  was  as  though  he  had  returned  to  the  last  moment 
of  the  battle,  as  though  the  three  days  of  his  aberration 
had  not  been,  and  he  was  saying  now  what  he  might 
have  said  them.  But  to  Jeremy  there  was  nothing  but 
injustice  in  this  long-suspended  comment.  He  forgot 
where  they  were  and  what  was  their  condition;  and 


THE  ROMAN  ROAD  307 

words  of  hot  anger  rose  in  his  mouth.  He  was  de- 
cei\  'td  for  a  moment  by  the  serenity  and  calmness  of 
the  Speaker's  voice  into  thinking  that  this  was  indeed 
the  man  who  had  tyrannically  driven  them  all  into 
disaster  by  his  ungovernable  will. 

"You "  shaped  itself  on  his  lips,  never  spoken; 

for  the  girl  plucked  in  terror  at  his  arm  and  at  the 
same  moment  he  stopped,  jaw  dropping,  eyes  starting 
and  hands  hanging  as  though  the  tendons  of  the  wrists 
had  been  cut.    For  the  old  man  was  dead. 

Eva  threw  herself  down  beside  the  body  and  pressed 
her  lips  on  her  father's  cold  forehead.  Then  realizing 
that  what  she  had  dreaded  was  true,  that  the  final 
event  had  taken  place,  she  slipped  helpless  to  one  side, 
sobbing  violently  with  dry  eyes  and  convulsed  mouth. 
Jeremy  looked  from  the  dead  man  to  the  grief-racked 
girl,  impotent  and  abased.  This  was  the  end  of  the 
old  man's  schemes  and  efforts,  his  life-long  devotion, 
his  last  sufferings — this  cold  and  miserable  death,  in 
the  beginning  of  the  morning,  on  a  bare  hill  in  the 
country  that  was  no  longer  his  own  to  scheme  for. 
In  the  contemplation  of  the  body  Jeremy  felt  for  a 
moment  relieved  of  human  desires,  contemptuous  of 
what  demanded  so  much  pains  for  so  small  a  reward. 

But  while  he  stood  thus  he  realized  for  the  first 
time  how  light  it  had  grown.  All  the  down  was  dimly 
revealed,  the  sun  was  on  the  point  of  rising,  and  faint 
mists,  curling  off  the  fields,  obscured  the  distances. 
But  close  at  hand  the  grove  in  which  they  had  hidden, 
and  the  bank  against  which  they  had  rested,  were 
plainly  shown.  Again  a  sense  of  staggering  recogni- 
tion invaded  Jeremy's  brain,  and  he  did  not  know  in 
what  world  or  what  time  he  was  living.  Then  in  a 
flash  he  was  enlightened. 


3o8     THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

"The  Roman  road!"  he  exclaimed,  forgetting  the 
dead  and  living  companions  who  lay  at  his  feet.  For 
the  long  bank,  overgrown  and  almost  hidden,  extend- 
ing into  the  mist  on  either  side,  was  the  Stane  Street, 
running  over  the  downs  like  an  arrow  to  Bignor  Hill. 
A  pure  wonder  overcame  Jeremy,  and  he  went  nearer 
to  the  road,  touched  the  high  unmistakable  stony 
mound  and  followed  its  trace  with  his  eyes.  He  re- 
membered it,  having  tracked  it  without  any  difficulty 
from  near  Halnaker  Hill  through  the  Nore  Wood, 
past  Cumber  Farm  and  past  this  very  place,  no  longer 
ago  than — no  longer  ago  than  the  year  191 3.  The 
month  had  been  September,  and  blackberries  had  been 
very  thick  in  the  hedges.  He  was  bewildered  and  the 
waking  earth  turned  dizzily  round  him,  while  the 
tragedy  in  which  he  had  just  taken  a  part  and  which 
was  perhaps  to  continue,  sank  into  the  category  of 
small  and  negligible  things.  It  seemed  to  take  its 
place  with  the  road  and  everything  else  in  a  fantasy 
of  idle  invention. 

He  recovered  himself  when  Eva  touched  him  lightly 
on  the  arm.  She  was  self-possessed  again,  save  that 
she  was  trembling  violently  and  that  her  beautiful 
face  was  drawn  and  pale.  He  wished  to  explain  to 
her  what  had  thus  struck  him  dumb,  but  she  whispered, 

"Look!  Look  down  there!" 

The  sun  was  now  just  up,  the  mists  were  fast 
clearing,  and  the  open  spaces  and  long  shadows  of 
the  hill-side  and  the  plain  were  very  distinct.  As  he 
followed  her  pointing  finger,  he  saw  a  line  of  little 
figures,  a  mile  away,  spread  out  as  though  they  were 
beating  the  ground,  advancing  slowly  up  the  hill. 

"The  Welsh!"  he  uttered,  somberly  and  without 
agitation.    This  was  what  he  had  known  and  expected, 


THE  ROMAN  ROAD  309 

and  his  heart  did  not  beat  a  fraction  the  faster  for  it. 
When  he  looked  at  Eva,  she  too  was  calm,  almost  rigid, 
waiting  for  his  next  word. 

"We  must  creep  up  through  the  bushes,"  he  whis- 
pered, as  though  the  enemy  had  been  already  within 
earshot.  "Perhaps  we  can  get  away  from  them  in  the 
woods  up  there."  She  nodded,  and  while  he  un- 
strapped his  pistols  and  saw  that  they  were  loaded, 
she  bent  over  her  father,  disposed  his  limbs  and  cov- 
ered his  face  with  her  cloak.  Then  she  put  her  hand 
in  Jeremy's,  saying  only, 

"We  must  leave  him.  We  could  do  nothing  for 
him." 

Without  another  glance  at  the  dead  man,  they 
began  to  hurry,  bending  almost  double,  beside  the 
bank  of  the  road,  stumbling  over  roots  and  avoiding 
the  swinging  bushes  as  best  they  could.  Once  or  twice 
they  had  to  dash  across  open  spaces  where  the  ancient 
road  had  disappeared,  gaps  kept  clear  by  old  cart- 
tracks  or  a  shepherd's  path;  and  once,  where  the 
bushes  clustered  too  thickly,  they  had  to  leave  shelter 
and  run  for  a  hundred  yards  in  the  bare  field. 


As  they  ran,  hand  in  hand,  torn  and  impeded  by 
the  briars,  growing  more  and  more  exhausted,  Jeremy 
owned  to  himself,  without  a  conscious  shaping  of  the 
thought,  that  they  were  lost,  that  they  had  too  small 
a  start  of  their  pursuers,  and  that  these  pursuers  were 
acting  in  a  careful  and  methodical  way,  which  was  an 
ill  omen.  But  he  was  dazed  and  rendered  distraught 
by  the  surroundings  of  their  flight.  With  one  part 
of  his  mind  he  felt  no  more  than  the  animal's  impulse 


310      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

to  run  for  safety,  carrying  his  mate  with  him.  With 
the  rest  he  was  revolving  loosely  the  odd  chance  that 
had  landed  them  thus  in  familiar  country  and  by  the 
side  of  this  great  deserted  causeway,  a  remnant  of 
antiquity  on  which  he  had  once  looked  with  the  feel- 
ings of  awe  and  wonder  that  these  people  now  be- 
stowed on  the  vestiges  of  his  own  days.  It  was  to 
this  side  of  him  that  the  landscape  was  growing  in- 
creasingly familiar,  seeming  to  drag  him  back  into 
his  own  natural  century,  away  from  all  the  violent 
and  incredible  events  of  the  last  few  weeks,  away 
from  the  bravely  struggling  girl  at  his  side.  ,  .  .  He 
felt  her  pull  on  his  hand  grow  heavier,  felt  that  she 
was  stumbling  more  and  more.  Then  the  Nore  Wood 
showed,  obscure  and  gloomy  ahead  of  them,  and 
at  the  same  moment  Jeremy  glanced  through  a  gap  in 
the  bushes  and  saw,  at  the  bottom  of  a  gentle  slope, 
Cumber  Farm,  the  old  weathered  building  with  its 
small  windows  and  the  well  in  front  of  it,  and  a 
woman  standing  in  a  half -opened  door,  emptying  out 
a  bucket  on  the  ground.  Why  run  so  painfully,  he 
wondered,  through  a  world  that  could  not  but  be  a 
dream?  He  halted  suddenly  and  dragged  Eva  back. 
A  few  hundred  yards  in  front  of  them,  at  the  point 
where  the  Stane  Street  entered  the  wood,  was  a  soldier 
on  horseback,  a  dark,  motionless,  watchful  figure,  the 
long  barrel  of  his  pistol  lying  in  the  crook  of  his 
arm  and  shining  in  a  stray  beam  of  the  sun. 

"No  good  going  on,"  he  panted.  "We  must  lie 
close  somewhere  for  a  bit."  Eva  said  nothing  and  he 
saw  that  her  face  was  white,  her  lips  pressed  together 
closely,  her  eyes  half  shut.  Her  free  hand  was  clasped 
to  her   side,   she   was  bending  backwards   from   the 


THE  ROMAN  ROAD  311 

waist,  and  her  breath  came  and  went  in  short  con- 
vulsive gasps. 

Near  them,  starting  out  of  the  growth  on  the  old 
road  and  running  down  the  slope  of  the  hill,  was 
another  black  hedge  which  seemed  to  lead  to  a  little 
wooded  knoll.  Without  speaking,  Jeremy  pulled  Eva 
towards  it,  and  keeping  close  in  the  shelter  of  the 
bushes  they  reached  it  without  hearing  any  cry  that 
showed  they  had  been  discovered.  They  scrambled 
to  the  top,  which  was  some  twenty  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  neighboring  fields,  and  lay  for  a  few 
moments,  face  downwards,  exhausted  and  oblivious 
among  the  gorse  and  bracken.  Then  Jeremy  recov- 
ered, sat  up  and  surveyed  their  position.  They  were 
well  hidden,  and,  by  peering  through  the  branches, 
they  could  watch  all  the  country  for  some  distance 
round.  His  hopes  began  to  revive  a  little.  They 
might  even,  with  great  good  fortune,  lie  here  unper- 
ceived  while  the  trackers  passed  by :  at  the  worst  the 
cover  was  enough  to  help  him  to  offer  some  encour- 
agement to  Eva.  And  his  chief  thought  was  to  restore 
her,  to  see  her  breathe  easily  again,  and  the  color 
come  back  to  her  cheeks,  to  stanch  the  blood  that 
trickled  from  a  deep  scratch  on  her  forehead,  to  kiss 
and  hold  her  torn  hands.     If  the  very  worst  should 

happen  and  they  were  found His  thoughts  broke 

off  and  he  looked  at  her  in  agony,  fearing  to  meet  her 
eyes.  She  too  had  sat  up  and  was  fumbling  in  the 
bosom  of  her  dress,  as  though  looking  for  something. 

When  she  saw  that  he  was  gazing  at  her  she  smiled 
faintly  and  said  in  a  natural  tone,  "At  any  rate  we  can 
rest  now."  Then  she  began  to  rearrange  her  skirts, 
to  put  the  tumbled  folds  into  place,  as  well  as  the  great 


312      THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

rents  in  them  would  allow,  and  to  smooth  the  dis- 
ordered strands  of  her  hair. 

"Rest.  Yes,  we  can  rest,"  he  answered  somberly. 
And  then  he  thought  how  adorable  she  looked  and, 
bending  over  towards  her  without  rising,  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her;  and  she  returned  his  kisses. 
Presently  they  released  one  another,  and  Jeremy  mur- 
mured, almost  in  a  whisper, 

"Kow  quiet  it  is!  You  wouldn't  think  there  was 
any  one  in  the  downs  but  us."  And  as  she  made  no 
reply  he  went  on,  "Do  you  know  what  that  bank 
was?  It  was  a  road  built  by  the  Romans  more  than 
two  thousand  years  ago.  Travelers  and  regiments  of 
soldiers  used  to  march  over  it,  though  it's  so  lonely 
now."  He  broke  off  and  stared  abstractedly  at  the 
ground.  "That  seems  a  strange  thing  to  talk  about 
just  now  when  we  .  .  .  when  we  .  .  ."  He  stopped 
altogether.  She  came  closer  to  him,  put  her  arm 
round  his  shoulder  and  drew  his  head  down  on  her 
breast.  Then  she  began  gently  to  stroke  his  hair  and 
there  was  infinite  solace  in  her  touch.  He  wondered 
whether  he  ought  to  discuss  with  her  what  they  should 
do  if  they  were  discovered ;  but  the  pain  of  that  thought 
was  so  great  that  it  drove  him  back  before  he  even 
felt  it.  He  dared  not  ...  he  dared  not  ...  he 
owned  his  cowardice.  He  let  it  go,  closed  his  eyes 
and  abandoned  himself  to  the  sweetness  of  her 
caresses. 

Once  more  time  vanished  and  became  an  unreal 
thing.  It  seemed  an  eternity  before  he  opened  his 
eyes  again;  but  when  he  did  so,  lazily,  it  was  to  see 
the  black  remorseless  figures  of  the  pursuers  spread 
out  in  a  long  crescent  in  the  field  below,  half  a  mile 
away.    Every  muscle  in  his  body  stiffened,  he  felt  his 


THE  ROMAN  ROAD  313 

lips  curling  back  from  his  teeth  Hke  those  of  a  fighting 
animal,  and  he  sat  up  abruptly  and  grasped  his  pistol. 
They  were  coming  quite  close,  and  they  were  searching 
all  the  hill-side  with  methodical  care,  advancing  with 
regular  and  terrifying  deliberation.  Perhaps  they  had 
been  led  thus  far  by  foot-prints  and  broken  branches 
and  rags  left  fluttering  on  the  thorns,  and  now  were 
casting  about  for  further  signs. 

Jeremy  turned  and  again  took  Eva  intO'  his  arms, 
and  pressed  his  mouth  on  hers.  The  kiss  continued, 
seemed  endless,  was  Intolerably  sweet  and  bitter,  a 
draught  not  like  any  he  had  ever  known.  Then  he 
broke  away,  saw  with  minute  care  to  the  readiness  of 
his  pistol,  and  bent  forward,  watching  intently  the  ap- 
proaching Welshmen.  Eva,  sitting  a  little  behind 
him,  again  slipped  her  hand  into  his  and  held  it  with 
a  firm  clasp  which,  though  he  could  no  longer  see  her, 
conveyed  to  him  all  her  sweetness  and  her  love.  Thus 
they  waited  without  moving,  they  did  not  know  how 
long,  while  the  trackers  advanced,  vanished  in  a  fold 
of  the  ground,  began  to  emerge  again.  Then  one  of 
them  uttered  a  harsh  piercing  view-halloo,  that  echoed 
horribly  through  the  empty  fields  and  sky;  and  in  the 
next  moment  Jeremy  felt  Eva's  hand  tighten  on  his 
convulsively  and  then  a  weight  behind  it,  dragging  it 
back.  He  forgot  the  enemy,  forgot  his  resolution  to 
kill  as  many  as  he  could  of  these  hateful  savages  be- 
fore he  was  himself  destroyed.  But  when  he  swung 
round  the  girl  had  fallen  on  her  back,  and  was  staring 
upwards,  her  eyes  and  her  lips  quite  peaceful,  the 
pallor  on  her  face  no  longer  that  of  fear  and  exhaus- 
tion, but  now  the  serene  and  even  pallor  of  death. 
In  her  free  hand  lay  open  the  little  metal  box  which 


314     THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  RUINS 

once  she  had  taken  from  her  fooHsh  waiting-maid; 
and  it  was  empty. 

Jeremy  did  not  rave  or  cry  out,  but  an  immense 
weariness  overcame  him,  in  which  those  who  were  aj>- 
proaching  slipped  altogether  from  his  thoughts.    Was 
it  for  this,  he  wondered,  staring  vacantly  at  the  fa- 
miliar English  country  around  him,  that  he  had  come 
so  far  and  done  and  suffered  so  much  ?    All  were  gone 
now,  all  were  enveloped  in  a  common  darkness,  those 
friends  of  his  earlier  life  and  his  new  friends,  the  old, 
vehement  Speaker,  poor  Roger  Vaile,  and,  last  and 
dearest  of  them,  the  Lady  Eva,  to  find  whom  a  century 
and  a  half  asleep  in  the  grave  had  been  a  slight  and 
welcome  preparation.    What  was  he  doing  here?    The 
Welsh  were  coming,  the  Welsh  had  sacked  London, 
they  had  taken  England  in  their  ravening  jaws.     He 
had  a  vision  of  the  world  sinking  further  below  the 
point  from  which  in  his  youth  he  had  seen  it,  still  on  a 
level  with  him.    Cities  would  be  burnt,  bridges  broken 
down,  tall  towers  destroyed  and  all  the  wealth  and 
learning  of  humanity  would  shiver  to  a  few  shards 
and  a  little  dust.     The  very  place  would  be  forgotten 
where  once  had  stood  the  houses  that  he  knew;  and 
the  roads  he  had  walked  with  his  friends  would  be 
as   desolate  and   lonely  as   the   Stane    Street  of   the 
Romans.      Even  all  this   story,   his   victory  and   his 
defeat,  his  joy  and  his  sorrow,  would  fade  out  of  the 
memory  of  man.    But  what  did  it  all  matter  to  Jeremy 
Tuft,  who,  wonder  and  portent  that  he  was,  strange 
anachronism,   unparalleled   and   reluctant  ambassador 
from  one  age  to  the  next,  had  suffered  in  the  end 
that  common  ill,  the  loss  of  his  beloved?     He  raised 
the  pistol  to  his  head  and  fired. 

THE    END 


